The Ambiguous Antagonist
by AdidasandPie
Summary: I could honestly say that this case was unique. We had never dealt with a murderous spice importer before." Soon after HOUND, Holmes and Watson investigate a singular case of food poisoning that holds more danger than meets the eye. No slash.
1. Watch the Hoodwink

A/N: Hello there. I have finally embarked upon the multi-chaptered fic journey (I'm not counting Nobility Has it's Side Effects, because that was written as a one-shot). This is actually my first attempt to write anything that actually has mystery and crime in it, as my previous stories are mostly fluff and domestic situations. I'm somewhat wary about writing an intricate mystery. I actually made an outline and everything.

This is very loosely based on the song 'One Week' by the Barenaked Ladies, not because I am particularly fond of that song, but because every time I hear it, it sends millions of plot bunnies hopping my way. The only thing I'm really using it for is the chapter titles. But this is not a song fic! I know those can be terribly annoying if you don't like the song. So if you don't, just forget that I ever told you it's based off a song. It stands alone.

As always, I appreciate reviews and constructive criticism to better my writing. Or you can just read. Or maybe no one is reading this anymore, because this author's note is so long. Enjoy.

* * *

The year 1889 was a most busy one for my friend Mr. Sherlock Holmes. I published accounts of five cases that year preceding our extraordinary excursion in Dartmoor. We were engaged in another equally extraordinary and perhaps even more singular case than that of Sir Henry Baskerville soon after our return to London. One week had barely passed before I started to see hints of this new case, although at the time I thought nothing of them.

My wife Mary was delighted when I returned in one piece after such a long time away, and even more so after I regaled her with our latest, and somewhat dangerous adventure.

Nearly a week after my return, on a crisp November morning, I had breakfasted with Mary and was preparing to go out.

"John, dear," Mary called from the kitchen. I popped my head in the doorway.

"Yes?'

She turned and walked towards me. "Would you mind terribly picking me up some fresh curry* on your way home? I've run out, and I was hoping to use it for dinner."

"Of course."

"Oh," She said, remembering something. "But don't get any of the Miramaw brand."

"Why not?" I asked, puzzled why in the world my wife would not want me to buy a certain brand of spice.

"I read in the paper today that some of their spices were poisoned recently." She answered.

I noted which brand not to buy, but didn't give the matter a second thought. It was not unusual for food to be contaminated or befouled. The whole thing left my mind completely until later that night, after we had enjoyed our curry-flavored dinner, when I received an urgent telegram from my colleague Dr. Anstruther.

REQUIRE YOUR SERVICES AS DOCTOR AT ST. KATHARINE'S DOCKS STOP INJURED WORKER STOP MAKE ALL HASTE STOP ANSTRUTHER FINAL STOP

There was more than one puzzling thing about the telegram. For one, I was a relatively newly established doctor. I had only been in practice a few years. If someone were to request a doctor, I should hardly think it would be _me_.

I was not the closest doctor, either. Our house was much further from the docks than say, Fleet Street, or Leamouth. My reputation did not justify the distance.

Regardless, I was in debt to Anstruther. He had covered my practice for me more times than I could count when I was out on cases with Holmes. Perhaps he really did think highly enough of me to call me all the way from the docks.

I gathered my coat and hat and bade goodbye to Mary, telling her not to wait up for me. Medical calls were never kind enough to stick to a predetermined schedule.

The cab ride was cold. London chose to begin winter early this year, and it was rather cold, even for November.

The cab arrived at my destination soon enough, and I hopped out, rubbing my hands together and looking up warily at the darkening sky. I'd rather this was over sooner than later. I had no desire to be caught out on the docks at night.

It dawned on me that I had no idea _where_ in the docks this injured worker was. The telegram had been terribly vauge. I looked around, hoping for some sort of indication as to where to proceed, when a hand clasped my shoulder and pulled me into a nearby doorway. I turned swiftly, raising my hand, and prepared to strike, but dropped it quickly when my assailant peeled of his beard, revealing the grinning face of Sherlock Holmes.

"Watson, I would expect a more mannerly greeting than that from you,"

I scowled at him, moving farther into the doorway. "What kind of reaction did you expect?"

He carefully reapplied the fake beard, but did not answer. I huddled into my overcoat and stared at Holmes.

"What possessed you to summon me in such a manner, Holmes?" I asked, but then frowned. "You aren't hurt, are you?"

He almost laughed. "No, no, Watson. The telegram was merely the most convenient and quickest way to get you here."

"So you used Anstruther as an alibi. You could have just wired as yourself, Holmes. I would've come either way."

"Ah, Watson, I have no doubts as to your loyalty," He replied, sticking his head out the doorway and looking around shiftily. "I have reason to believe I am being watched."

Watched? "But why would you use Anstruther's name? Do they not know who you are?" I frowned at the thought. If it were so, Holmes would have inadvertently put Anstruther in danger.

"Oh, no, my dear fellow, they are not watching me now. I daresay they have no idea where I am. They are keeping an eye on Baker Street, and perhaps your own home, though I doubt it. I have taken every precautionary measure regardless. I think we have effectively thrown them off, however, with this little gimmick."

I was used to Holmes withholding information from me during cases, but I should have like to be informed that I was being watched in my own home.

"I still do not understand why I am here." I was starting to get worried. "Is there danger? Should we move Mary-"

"There is no danger, not yet. You are here because I enjoy your companionship and it is most tiresome to watch my own back. I could not fetch you at your home myself, as one way or another our opponent would have observed it"

I accepted this, but I still felt rather in the dark. I didn't have much time to ponder the matter, however, because Holmes suddenly pulled me out of the doorway and across the street to a seemingly abandoned house.

"Here, Watson, keep watch." Holmes said, bending down to pick the lock. It took him only a few minutes, in which I saw nothing amiss. He replaced the tools in his pocket and went inside. I followed, after one more glance outside.

The cobwebs that had formed and the layer of dust coating everything confirmed my theory that the house had been abandoned. There were still some sparse furnishings, and Holmes and I sat at a creaking table in the corner of the room.

"I think that I had better catch you up, Watson." He remarked, lighting a cigarette.

I assented, waiting for him to begin his narrative.

"Perhaps you have read of the recent food poisonings in the paper?" He asked.

I was about to reply in the negative, when I remembered my earlier conversation with Mary. "Yes, Mary told me something about it."

"Excellent. There are some singular features of this affair, Watson, that lead me to believe that it is not an accidental happening."

I gasped. "You mean to say that someone is purposely poisoning the food?"

"Not the food, but the spices. You'll note that both incidents are linked with one seasoning company. There are some unsavory characters involved that make murder quite probable. Both cases have resulted in death."

I could honestly say that this case was unique. We had never dealt with a murderous spice importer before.

"I shall tell you the details later, Watson. For now, let us finish conducting the business we came here for. As you are no doubt aware, there have been two poisonings so far. The odd thing is that I can see no links between the two people poisoned. One is a nobleman, Harland Glover, with good relations and better finances. The second is a beggarly sailor, with bad relations and worse finances. This villain of ours has a very peculiar taste in vengeance."

Peculiar, indeed. "So you're investigating the sailor now?"

Holmes nodded. "Yes. It is somewhat easier to get information from tipsy seamen in a public house than condescending noblemen."

"Who do you suspect?"

"I am not partial to presenting my theories before I have all the facts, but in this case I will make an exception. I believe that someone in the Miramaw Spice Company, likely a prominent figure, is using the poisoned spices to murder people that have previously offended him. I have my theories as to who this someone might be, but I shall not reveal that just yet. I cannot make bricks without clay. I think we can safely say that we have thrown off our pursuers, Watson. I have a few tickets to the theatre tonight. Would you care to join me?"

This abrupt change of topic caught me off guard. Upon seeing my hesitation, he quickly clarified.

"I assure you, dear fellow, it has the utmost bearing upon the case."

That was good enough for me. I probably would have gone anyway, except I did not want to keep Mary worrying.

"I should be delighted to." I answered, as Holmes transformed from bearded ruffian to clean-shaven gentleman. He packed away the disguise in his coat pocket.

"Excellent. Let us proceed to the play, then."

Holmes slipped his arm through mine and we walked down the street and away from the docks. That was certainly a relief. I didn't foresee any danger from the telegram, and therefore hadn't brought my revolver. I was glad enough when we reached the warm and brightly lit Royal Victoria Theatre**.

I was eager to escape the frosty air, but Holmes stopped me at the door of the theatre.

"Hold on, Watson. I'm famished. You wouldn't mind if I got a cheap meal off that vendor*** over there before we go in?"

I shook my head, and he walked over to the vendor. As anxious as I was to get out of the cold, I was rather glad Holmes was eating. It was a small wonder he was famished. He had probably been working on the case for days and not allowed himself any food.

I jammed my hands in my pockets while Holmes chatted with the street vendor. Eventually he returned to where I was standing, holding in his hands a paper-wrapped parcel that smelled vaguely of fish. I was about to inquire what it was when Holmes spoke.

"Tonight's show promises to be a romantic melodrama much like it's predecessors at this theatre. Perhaps, though, we will not have to endure it."

"What do you mean?" I asked, a little peeved that Holmes would have us walk all the way here only to decide at the last moment that he did not want to see the play.

"I mean that I am very glad you are a doctor," He replied, and shoveled some of the fishy-smelling stuff into his mouth.

I was utterly confused about his cryptic statements. What in the world did he mean by he was glad that I was a doctor?

Holmes chewed slowly, glanced at me, and swallowed.

Surely not. Even Holmes wouldn't be daft enough to test poisoned food on himself…

"Well, Watson," he said, smiling. "It appears it was not poisoned."

"Holmes!" I cried, appalled that he indeed _would_ be daft enough. I floundered for something to say, and when I found nothing sufficient, muttered "You could have at least told me."

"You wouldn't have let me do it if I had told you," He replied, poking around in the parcel.

"Of course I wouldn't have! You could have died!"

"But I didn't"

"Holmes, you are insufferable,"

He only smiled. "So it would seem. But we are wasting precious time, and I should like to visit Scotland Yard before I return you to your wife."

"We're not even going to see the play?" I asked, a little dismayed, for it had looked quite good.

"I shall recompense you for it. But my dear fellow, do you think I really would have sat through one of The Blood Tub's plays? They are worse than your romantic drivel."

* * *

A/N: I hope that wasn't too confusing? I think this is a bit generic and weak, but I'll try to put some of my own style into it as the story progresses. I also think Watson comes off as a bit daft in this chapter. Don't worry, though, he'll regain his intelligence soon enough.

I seem to be amassing a lot of out-of the way knowledge by researching for this story. Now I know all about the history of spices. There's a wonderful website called the Victorian Dictionary full of good information.

*Curry was making its way over to England about this time, mostly brought back by soldiers who had been in India. So it would make sense for the Watsons to be familiar with it. And I couldn't think of any other spices that sounded good.

**This is indeed a real theatre, built in 1818 with the name of The Royal Coburg, renamed in 1833 as The Royal Victoria, and now under the name 'Old Vic'. It was given the nickname "The Blood Tub" for it's sensational melodramas. It's situated 1.7 miles west of St. Katharine's docks. Thank goodness for Google maps.

***I've done quite a bit of research on this. There were street vendors selling food, though I'm not sure I'm justified in what they're selling…


	2. You Try to Match Wits

A/N: I don't like the title of this story. At all. At least it's got alliteration.

Sorry this was so late. Life has an annoying habit of getting in the way of important stuff like fanfiction. I'm hoping for the rest of the updates to be faster than this one, but we'll see.

* * *

**Lestrade**

I've known Mr. Sherlock Holmes for a fairly long while. I doubt I've ever met such a cock-sure bloke in all my life.

"Do stop fussing over it, Watson,"

I've probably not met a more intelligent man in my life either. It's fine enough for a man to be cock-sure and wrong, for then you can take him down a peg. But Mr. Holmes is nearly always right. Correctness and conceitedness don't mix well. Can go to a blokes head, they can.

"I'll do no such thing! You could've _died_, Holmes."

I was as surprised as the next chap when he took on a roommate. No one thought it'd last long, but we were all dead wrong. As Mr. Holmes repeatedly takes great joy in pointing out.

"It was for the good of the case. And you were there if something were to go wrong."

They're a right pair of chums, those two. Mr. Holmes might choose his friends selectively, but I can't say he has bad taste. The Doctor's a regular brick*, he is.

"I may be a doctor, Holmes, but I cannot simply banish any and every ailment that comes your way."

I've had many a verbal row with Mr. Holmes, and I can advise strongly against it. Never have I won, or seen anyone else do so. But if I were to pick a man to break the streak, my money'd be on Dr. Watson.

"Perhaps I should look for a new physician in that case."

I had half a mind to go over and break up their little shine**, but I was keen to see how it'd end up. The Doctor was mighty close to breaking down Mr. Holmes.

"I doubt you shall be able to find one that will put up with you."

I imagined that was as close as I'd ever come to seeing Mr. Holmes lose an argument. They were approaching me rather quickly, but they were both so engaged in their verbal sparring match that neither of them noticed. Dr. Watson looked thoroughly disgruntled, while Holmes merely strolled along nonchalantly.

"Why could you not test the poison on something other than yourself?"

They were practically walking in place in front of me, at the rate they were moving. I wondered if they'd ever notice me…

"On whom, Watson? The first person that walks by? That's hardly any better."

I shuffled my feet and cleared my throat, but they were still both intensely engaged in their little tiff.

"You tested the pills on Mrs. Hudson's terrier in the Jefferson Hope case."

I nearly laughed aloud when I saw the briefest expression of realization flicker across Mr. Holmes face. He was silent for just a moment too long. Was I witnessing the impossible- Sherlock Holmes, bested in a battle of wits?

"We could not be sure the poison would have the same effect on an animal."

Oh, of _course_. It was obvious he had made up the retort on the spot, because he would never give up a situation like this, no matter how futile his argument. The doctor recognized this fact by sighing resignedly and cocking his head at Holmes.

"I'm angry, Holmes."

Dr. Watson, angry? Dr. Watson, angry with _Mr. Holmes_? I'd seen him irritated with him before, but never angry. The doctor was too forgiving to be angry. This was a monumental day indeed.

I expected Mr. Holmes to reply with some smart remark, but to my surprise, he merely looked… dejected. I didn't think my system could take any more shocks.

While I was busy being baffled, the two of them finally noticed that they were standing in front of me.

"Good evening, Inspector."

"I know it must be hard for you, but try not to look so completely lost, Lestrade."

I rearranged my features into an apathetic grimace.

"Good evening, Dr. Watson, Mr. Holmes. Can I be of service to you?"

"Without a doubt." Holmes drawled, sounding terribly self-important. "I should like to have some information on one Marcellus Dewar."

"He's not in your index?" Dr. Watson asked him.

"I'm afraid not. I don't make a study of seemingly innocent spice company managers."

"Right this way, gentlemen, and we'll see what we've got on him." I said, ushering them towards our records room. "I'd like to know what this is all about, mind." I added after neither of them made a move to explain.

"If you must, Lestrade. We've a pretty little problem on our hands. I have reason to believe Mr. Dewar may be behind the food poisonings of late." Holmes glanced over at Watson, who still looked peeved about something.

"Dewar is the head of Miramaw- the spice company. Yes, you know. Both of the recent poisonings have been from foods flavored with this particular company's spices. These poisonings are possibly, or rather probably, murder."

"Surely it is just accidental?" I asked, sorting through the files. "It's a little preposterous to suggest such an accusation with such little evidence."

"That is exactly what we are here for. We are hoping to find what reason Dewar had to kill two people."

This explanation didn't explain their row earlier. I said as much, and the Doctor flushed, while Mr. Holmes only cocked an eyebrow.

"Watson has a tendency to overreact." He stated simply.

Dr. Watson glared at Mr. Holmes and elaborated. "Holmes was _foolish_ enough to nearly poison himself." he spat vehemently.

I almost laughed. "How _did_ you manage that, Mr. Holmes?"

Holmes looked irritated at my joy. "I tested the food I suspected was poisoned by eating it."

I snorted. "That was rather dense of you."

"I am in complete agreement." Dr. Watson added.

"Have you that file yet, Lestrade?"

I located it, and plucked up the folder. It was rather thin; I didn't think it would yield the results my visitors were looking for.

Mr. Holmes grabbed it from my hand and ruffled through it. He finished soon enough, as there were only a few papers in the whole thing. The amateur handed it back to me with an expression of dismay.

"Nothing, Watson." He said. "The man is cleaner than a bar of soap."

Holmes strode out the room without a word. The Doctor shook my hand and murmured a word of thanks before following him out.

**Holmes**

Our best lead had gotten us nowhere. These poisonings were not accidents, of that I was sure. Someone was behind all this, but it was certainly not Marcellus Dewar.

Watson caught up with me and we left the Yard silently. I slowed down a bit when we reached the sidewalk, and Watson turned his head towards me.

"What now, Holmes?"

I waved my hand dismissively, and he turned away without a word.

Perhaps it was someone lower down in the company? No, it was only Dewar who had the authority to pull this off successfully. What then? Blackmail? Yes, that was certainly a possibility, though it would be a very intricate process. The only other possibility was for someone outside of the company to have tampered with the spices. That was another possibility.

What really puzzled me were the victims. It was odd that the murderer should first poison a Nobleman, and then drop down to a lowly dockworker. The only connection between them was that they had both bought their food from a vendor near the theatre. But they were different vendors. Perhaps our villain had a vengeance for that particular theatre, then. That was plausible. He could be trying to drag the theatres name through the mud by creating deaths there. Now here was a possible lead.

Watson's voice brought me out of my reverie. "What _was_ that that you ate?"

"At the theatre?" I asked. He indicated the affirmative. "I believe it is called _Edo***._"

"What in the world is that?" He asked.

"From what I have gathered, it is a food of Japanese decent that has recently made its way to our shores. It's raw fish wrapped in seaweed." I laughed at his disgusted face. "It was rather foul tasting. Apparently it is the newest craze in all classes of society. Both the dockworker and the nobleman saw fit to try it."

"Lot of good it did them," He mumbled, stifling a yawn. "What do you propose we do next?"

"It would be cruel to keep your wife worrying any longer. I think I have kept you out late enough. I propose you return home and catch up on your slumber."

Watson eyed me dubiously. "You had better do the same, Holmes. And I do not want to hear from Mrs. Hudson that you're not eating anything."

"Yes, yes." I said impatiently. "Mrs. Hudson has taken over the position of fusser-in-chief quite nicely since you left. I assure you I get more than enough of both."

He smiled wryly at me, but did not say another word on the subject, thank Heavens.

After a tidy bit of walking, we finally succeeded in locating a cab. I dropped Watson off and ordered the cabbie back to Baker Street.

* * *

*"A regular brick": slang: implies the highest commendation of a man's character, the 'best of good fellows'.

**'Shine' slang: argument, domestic disturbance

*** '_Edo_'- sushi, basically. It's possible, but not probable that it would've been in England at the time. I couldn't find any evidence that it was sold by street vendors, but it was supposedly making it's way westward around the turn of the 20th century.


	3. Make a Break and Take a Fake

A/N: I've really wanted to get this story off the ground, but school and sports seem to be conspiring against me. Ah, but here is the weekend (I've got Friday off!).

Also- a kind reviewer pointed out to me that Holmes guessed in the first chapter. That's not quite right, eh? Well, it's fixed now. Sorry for that canonical inaccuracy.

* * *

**Watson**

Mary was asleep when I returned home, and I was not far from myself. I slept like a stone throughout the night and awoke much refreshed. My medicinal duties proved to be perfectly normal, and a bit boring despite the surprisingly steady trickle of patients. I found my profession to be tediously dull when Holmes had a case. I waited impatiently for him to call again with news.

His knock finally came later that night, just as Mary and I were finishing our dinner. He entered awkwardly and politely refused my wife's offer of dinner. Amazing how that masterful manner could be so reduced when Mary was present. He blew a sigh of relief when she left, smiling at me on the way out.

I turned to Holmes, eager for an update on his findings.

"What news of the case?" I asked.

He ignored my question and examined a painting hanging on his right. Just as quick as it had vanished with Mary's presence, the masterful manner had returned with Mary's absence. "Are you up to a little excursion, my dear fellow?" Holmes asked.

"Of course. When should I be ready?"

Holmes twitched a smile. "Good man. I think it will do best if we leave as soon as possible."

I retrieved my overcoat and hat from the stand, and on Holmes' request, my revolver from the drawer, and we made towards the door. Mary intercepted us on our way out.

Holmes had apparently regained his confidence, and loudly addressed her.

"You will not mind if I borrow your husband for yet another night, Mrs. Watson?"

"Certainly not, Mr. Holmes," she smiled, her eyes twinkling.

Mary pecked me on the cheek, at which point Holmes decided to be intensely interested in the wallpaper across the hall, and we left.

Holmes was possessed with the fervent energy that always arose when he was in the midst of a case. He began to explain, leaving the questions unbidden on my lips.

"Not long ago, Watson, I believe you said you did not mind breaking the law if it was in good cause. Do you still hold fast to that belief?"

"If you think the cause is just I should be glad to help"

"It is a just cause indeed. It may well prevent the indirect murder of several Londoners. I might add that it is also not such a deplorable crime that we will be committing. We are only taking a peek at the inner workings of the Miramaw Spice Company. We shall probably not have to steal anything, so your conscience can rest easy, Watson. I think it will be a rather quiet visit."

"What are you hoping to find?"

"Evidence. We need proof that Dewar has been poisoning the spices to properly accuse him. I doubt we shall meet much opposition in our endeavor. Guards are an unlikely precaution, and it is a rare fellow who will hang about a spice factory in the middle of the night."

It did not seem like I would have reason to use my revolver tonight, but nevertheless I kept my coat pocket unbuttoned.

We had taken a hansom to the docks, near the place where we had been last night. Holmes insisted on walking from here to the factory in case we should be spotted.

I saw no one along the way, and the factory looked equally deserted when we reached it. Holmes made short work of the lock, or what was left of the lock after the rust had eaten into it. We entered stealthily, keeping to the shadows as much as possible. I could see no one here, as Holmes had said, but I scanned the room warily all the same.

There was much for us to hide behind should the occasion arise. The room was large, with a high ceiling not unlike a warehouse. Pipes running all around the room connected huge tanks of presumably, spices. Above us, I could see a lattice of metal walkways and ladders. I noted that they were in deplorably bad repair- they were as rusty as the lock and looked unsteady.

Holmes examined the tanks minutely while I kept a look out. He climbed up one of the metal ladders to get a better view of the tank, and I followed. Holmes scrambled over the top and stood upon the walkway. I was about to do the same when a shot rang out from somewhere below us, and a bullet ricocheted off the ladder rung, not six inches from my hand.

I wasted no time in hauling myself up on the walkway, and it was lucky I did, for another shot hit the ladder the moment I had. Holmes had my arm in an instant and dragged me across the walkway, which protested loudly at all the strain being put on it.

"Nothing hit you, Watson?" He asked, his hands grasping my shoulders.

I shook my head, and he let out a breath. Our relief was abruptly cut short, however, when another bullet blasted straight through a weak spot in the metal, leaving a gaping hole in the walkway.

We scrambled away from the gunshot, and I quickly pulled the revolver from my pocket. I poked my head over the walkway, hoping to get a glimpse of our attacker, only to have another bullet strike the railing next to me. I could not get a shot off without being peppered with bullets. I looked towards Holmes, who motioned for me to follow him. He crouched and ran along the walkway, stopping some ways ahead.

I finally had a chance to view the shooter- a large, clean-shaven man. Much more about his appearance I could not see, except that he was wearing a dark coat and hat.

I rolled over to face Holmes and make sure he had not been hit with an awry shot. He lay flat against the walkway, but bared no marks of harm. Perhaps if I tried a shot from the other side, I could catch the villian off guard-

My thoughts were cut off suddenly as another bullet struck the walkway. The joint screeched and groaned, and my eyes locked with Holmes' for an instant before the metal gave way. I latched onto the railing, but the strip tipped backwards and hung vertically. I could see Holmes on the other side, doing the same thing. The whole section seemed to be hanging by fiercely wobbling screw. Our attacker ran towards the hanging strip of metal to get a better view. He could easily pick us off the railings when he got there.

My stomach seemed to leap into my throat as the walkway gave another horrible screech. The screw popped loose, and all too quickly we were falling through open space.

* * *

A/N: 'Tis short- but I wanted to get this up. Now go on, try out that shiny new review button at the bottom of the page- I know you want to.


	4. The Finest of the Flavors

A/N: Ah! I'm so sorry- I was intending to get this up much earlier today, but several things happened simultaneously; and I haven't been home since noon. I just got home, but I feel so guilty about leaving you guys hanging (quite literally) that I sat down and wrote this right away.

**Holmes**

We were in a predicament. On one hand, we've the murderous attacker, on the other a fall to our probable deaths. Not much to work with.

There was no time to decide regardless. The whole matter went by very quickly, and before I could even shout out the walkway had broken and we were falling.

Fortunately, unexpectedly, miraculously, I felt myself land not on a solid surface, but plunge into liquid. I could tell from the moment I landed in it that it was not water. It was too thick. This was only confirmed when torrents of it gushed into my mouth and up my nose, flooding my sense with a familiar flavor. I recognized it as vanilla.

I surfaced, but kept low, expecting to be peppered with bullets again. The crook had apparently thought the job was done, for all I saw was his back as he fled out the door.

We were in a large tank. The sides were raised up to keep the liquid in, but they also effectively blocked all light. I listened for Watson's breathing or splashing, and for a jolting moment heard nothing. The next moment vanilla was splashed in my face and I heard gasping and spluttering.

"Watson? Are you there, old fellow?"

"Here, Holmes."

I judged from his voice that he was far enough away from me that I could explore the tank without running into him, so I did so. I had been treading so far, but now I extended my legs down and felt, to my surprise, the bottom of the tank. I could stand with my chin a few inches above the liquid.

"Can you stand?" I asked, for Watson was somewhat shorter than I.

'Yes- just barely." He spluttered, evidently spitting out vanilla as he did.

I looked up at the walls of the tank. There was no way I could reach the top, even if I jumped.

"Shall I give you a…boost, Holmes?" Watson mumbled in between gasping breaths.

"If you think you can." I replied dubiously. He was barely above water as it was.

Watson waded over to me with the aid of my voice, and soon had his hand on my shoulder.

"I'll crouch down and try to leverage you up. On my count."

I was not much in favor of the idea of him being submerged for so long a time, as he was obviously having trouble getting air even now. But I had no time to argue.

"One, two three-" he inhaled sharply and plunged underwater. I felt him grab one of my feet and place it in his cupped hands, and I put the other there as well. In an instant I was being propelled upwards, coming up to my waist out of the water. I was just able to grab the side of the tank before my feet were released. I hauled myself up and got my elbows over the wall.

"All right, Watson?" I asked, peering anxiously into the dark tank. Once again, I hear him resurface and flounder about.

"I'm fine. Are you out?"

"Nearly."

I managed to pull myself over to the other side of the tank and drop the distance to the floor. I was tempted to collapse and lay motionless for a long period of time, but Watson's hiccupping from inside the tank brought me back to my senses.

I looked desperately around for something to pull him out with, and was extremely relieved to find a coil of rope hanging not far away. I dashed over and retrieved it. I was able to get up on a platform next to the tank to extend the rope down to Watson. I threw it over a beam next to me to create a simple pulley, and then threw the other end down into the tank. The rope went taut when he grabbed it, but I held fast and began to pull. I soon had him up to the brim of the tank, where he grabbed the top and began to haul himself over.

I ran over to help him, grabbing his arms and practically dragging him onto the platform. He sat in a heap with his back to the tank wall, breathing heavily. I crumpled next to him, doing the same.

"Are you quite alright, Watson?" I asked, a little concerned to hear the rasping breaths.

"Yes, I just need…to catch my breath. I couldn't really get one in there."

He still sounded under par to me, but I wrote it off as tiredness. Our quiet little snoop had turned eventful and even dangerous.

"My clothes will smell like vanilla for weeks."

I smiled at his forlorn statement, and hefted myself to my feet, extending a hand to Watson as I did. He took it and with my help was standing upright next to me.

"I shall get you back home now, my dear fellow. You deserve a nice warm-up, an armchair by the fire, and perhaps Mrs. Watson has even made some nice vanilla biscuits for you."

He looked fittingly repulsed, and replied with some vehemence. "I don't think I will ever desire and sort of food in that flavor ever again."

I laughed, and slipped his arm into the crook of mine, for he looked rather exhausted. We stumbled out of the warehouse and into the street, where of course, there we no cabs to be seen. I wondered if a cabbie would take two drenched men smelling strongly of vanilla anyway.

"What do you make of the man shooting at us, Holmes?"

I crinkled my nose. "I saw him, before he came at us. He was indeed tampering with the spices- namely the very one we dropped so fortunately into. The question is: who is he? He cannot be Dewar, for he is bearded, and our pursuer was clean-shaven. It would not be unusual to suggest that he is an ally of Dewar's. I am almost partial to that explanation, for it would be safer and more convenient for him to use a crony in his schemes."

"But why would he shoot at us? Surely it would be better to just hide?"

"Ah, Watson, you've brought up an interesting point. Why shoot, indeed? This suggests that he was not an accomplice of Dewar's, but a individual third party, acting on his own or a higher-up's orders."

My tone from thereon out was dismissive, for I needed time to think over this new information. Watson, as always, took the hint, and we spent the rest of the walk in silence.

A/N: I've read of Watson's phobia of water, but I figure I could make a little exception here, since he can touch the ground, and it's not really water. Honestly, I just don't think I could write him with a convincing phobia.


	5. See the Show

A/N: I was in a used bookstore a little while ago, and what do I see but the two volume set Baring-Gould Complete Annotated Sherlock Holmes, and at a very modest price. Needless to say, I'm now the very happy owner of two forest-green volumes of joy.

* * *

**Holmes**

I presented my plans to investigate the crime scene the next night to Watson on the way home. It at least kept his mind off the lingering vanilla smell attached to us. We reached his house at nearly midnight, where we stood at the door before he went it.

"I'll send you word of what's happened when it's done," I said, hailing a passing cab.

"I can't come along?"

This statement threw me off guard, for I expected him to say the exact opposite. I had two times consecutively now called on him in the evening, dragged him off to some god-forsaken are of the city and returned him back to his house very late and much the worse for wear. Yet he still wished to accompany me.

"I hadn't thought you would want to."

"It is an honor."

Loyal as ever, was Watson. Good man.

"Then I shall come fetch you for the theatre at ten of nine tomorrow evening."

"Shall I bring my revolver?"

"Do."  
"Good night, Holmes."

I dismissed his farewell with a wave and climbed into the waiting cab. Baker Street and a fresh change of clothes were waiting.

**Watson**

Mary was more amused than surprised to see me come home drenched in vanilla. She had become accustomed to me returning from my excursions with Holmes in all states. I was immensely glad to change out of my damp suit and warm myself by the fire. I told Mary of our adventure, and she gasped when I got to the part about our attacker.

"He is still free? Have you any idea of who he is?"

I furrowed my brow. "No, I think not. I couldn't get a good look at him."

I noticed Mary yawning, and as I felt rather tired myself, suggested we retire. She agreed wholeheartedly. I think I was asleep before I even made it to the bed.

----

I rose early the next morning to prepare my practice for the day, but I did not enjoy it. I was never an early riser, and I very much despised getting up early to start my practice. There was nothing for it, though.

The day dragged on at a snail's speed, and I was supremely relieved to see my last patient loaf out the door in mid afternoon. I went to the stationer's and the apothecary before catching a cab home. I tried to read the new novel I'd bought a few days ago, but found my mind was utterly preoccupied with Holmes' case. I gave up on the book and paced uselessly around the room until supper came.

Mary and I enjoyed a nice supper, in which I'm afraid to say I yawned quite a bit, finally feeling the effects of the last two nights.

I decided to prepare for the theatre early, and dressed in my best garb. Mary was in the sitting room, and I grinned and extended my arms for her approval.

"You look lovely, dear. Don't forget of your wife when all the women are flocking about you." She jested.

"I would never. They are of no interest to me when I have you."

We whiled away the time until Holmes called in the sitting room, and I nearly fell asleep in my chair until Mary brushed my shoulder on her way to open the door.

I stood and wiped the sleep from my eyes as Sherlock Holmes entered the room.

"Are you sure you're up to it, Watson?" he asked, more directly and frankly than I would have thought.

"Certainly."

He did not look quite convinced, but I forestalled his doubts by retrieving my coat and top hat and brushing by him to say farewell to Mary. I noticed this time he lingered a bit in the sitting room, until he judged Mary and I were done "saying our farewells" before coming down into the hall.

Holmes had a cab waiting, fortunately, for it was drizzling steadily and gloomily, as London is wont to do. I was rather looking forward to a night at the theatre, but Holmes looked foreboding and disgruntled. It would not be a stretch to guess he knew something I did not concerning our trip.

I endeavored to cheer Holmes up a bit, for I was not looking forward to an evening with an irritated and grumpy companion.

"How is this theater linked with the affair?" I asked, though I already knew the answer.

"Surely you remember, Watson. We visited it not two days ago, where I tested the food for poison." He growled. "Both Glover and the seaman were poisoned here- Glover after seeing a play and the seaman just passing by. It is possible that the murderer has not a personal vengeance, but a larger one upon the theatre itself."

My question set off a rambling explanation of the case and all its intricacies, but it worked in its intent to cheer Holmes up. By the time we reached the theatre his eyes were shining with excitement and he was chatting with me amicably.

"I've box seats, Watson, the very best." He called out.

"Grand, Holmes."

We reached our seats just as the lights began to dim, but I noticed the other occupants of the box had failed to show up.

"Shame," I whispered, gesturing to the empty seats. "They are nice seats."

Holmes glanced over but looked uninterested. "I'll not miss them."

I smiled at that, and turned my attention to the play. It was really rather deplorable after the first few scenes, but I was attentive all the same, for Holmes looked to be thoroughly enjoying it. He was paying rapt attention. We had quite the difference in taste.

**Holmes**

I was anxious to prevent another death, and so kept a sharp eye on the stage and the audience. I had not seen anything suspicious so far, but that was to be expected. The murder would most likely attempt a killing in the same way as the previous times- with poisoned food from a vendor outside the theatre.

The second act came about, and I found that my attention was slipping from the audience to the stage. The play was actually somewhat enjoyable, unlike those horrid dramas Watson is fond of.

I was engrossed in the scene before me when I heard a scuffling noise. I put it off to Watson fidgeting.

I did not disregard the sharp crack I heard or Watson crumpling forward in his chair, but I had not time to act on it, for as soon as I reached forward another crack sounded and a splitting pain burst through my head; and I too pitched forward, the lights dimming lower and lower…

* * *

A/N: Oh no, I did it again! Really, I've never been one to do cliffhangers, but that's two in three posts. Do try to hold tight.

A Happy Easter to all of you who celebrate it.


	6. The Vertigo is Gonna Grow

**Watson**

I came to my senses slowly, with a terrible pounding in my head and carpet in my mouth. I opened my eyes to have a look around, but it was pitch black and moving my head only made it pound more terribly.

I raised myself slowly and wobbly to my knees, but once there I felt a dizzying sense of nausea and had to put one hand over my eyes and the other on a nearby object to settle myself.

Suddenly my muddled brain recalled the night's events.

"Holmes?" I called out, alarmed at how weak and slurred my voice sounded. There was no answer.

I tried to stand, but the idea was quickly rejected by my equilibrium, so I moved about on my hands and knees, albeit unsteadily. I could see next to nothing and in result bumped into quite a few things before my searching hands found a piece of paper-like material on the floor. I picked it up and continued on my way towards a very small sliver of light a few yard away.

There was a slight shuffling sound, and I stopped moving and huddled down despite the lack of light. I head a grunt and then my name was called out.

"Watson?" The voice could only be Holmes'. I let out a relieved sigh and turned my head in the direction I judged his voice was coming from.

"I'm here, Holmes." My reply was less articulate than I would have liked, but it fulfilled its intention, and soon enough I heard Holmes shuffling towards me. I could have sworn I heard a sigh not unlike my own come from his direction.

"Good Lord, I cannot see anything in this light. Don't let me run over you, Watson."

It was lucky that he said it, because he nearly had run over me, and would have if he'd taken another step to the left.

"Here, Holmes" I elected to use as little words as possible, because talking was proving to be increasingly difficult. I raised my arm upwards and caught hold of his coat. I heard him slide down the wall and sit next to me.

"There you are, Watson. Are you all right?"

"I've been worse" I grimaced. "Mostly just a headache. And you?"

"The same. A most irritating headache. But I've been blind as a bat! Our absentee neighbors were not entirely coincidental, I'm afraid. Whoever has so rudely interrupted our show has seen fit to make sure we were alone. But we must hurry, Watson. They did not render us unconscious just to prevent us from enjoying a play. I'm afraid the motive was much more sinister. I only hope that we are not too late to prevent another murder."

I had heard Holmes stand up while he was talking, and I tried to do the same now, but upon finding my feet I felt a great wave of dizziness and stumbled forward into Holmes.

"My dear Watson! Are you quite well?" Holmes cried, a bit alarmed at my sudden weakness.

"Yes, I'm-" I was cut off by another wave of nausea and had to bite my lip.

"Here Watson," Holmes said, settling my arm around his shoulder. "Do you think you have a concussion?"

I pondered this for a moment, for it is a bit hard to diagnose oneself when one's brain is considerably addled.

"Watson?" Holmes gripped my hand and shook it a bit.

"I'm- no, it's not bad. Perhaps a minor one."

"Come, Watson, we must get to a doctor." Holmes pulled me towards the sliver of light.

"But the murderer-"

"I shall see to him when you are looked after." He admonished, hoisting my arm a bit more securely over his shoulder. I focused on taking even steps, and thrust my free hand into my coat pocket. It came in contact with the piece of paper I had encountered earlier on the floor, and I pulled it out.

"Holmes," I began, as we came closer to the door. "I found something, on the floor earlier. It looks like a piece of paper."

I handed it over to him, and he clutched it in his hand until we were out of the dark room. The door opened up into the theatre hallway, so I perceived we had been in the box the whole time we were unconscious. There was no one around. The show must have been long over.

Holmes pulled me towards the opposite wall and I leaned on it while he examined the piece of paper.

"Commonplace note paper, Watson. The handwriting is not Dewar's- interesting. It has a distinct smell of nutmeg about it- even more interesting, for you will note that nutmeg is not a spice produced at Miramaw. I think, Watson, that we can safely write of Marcellus Dewar as the murderer."

I was a bit shocked at this sudden change in theory, but not quite lucid enough to really contemplate it. Holmes opened the envelope, and pulled out a hurriedly scrawled note.

"This is hastily written. He probably wrote while we were senseless, and had not much time to finish his work and beat a hasty retreat. Here, Watson, I'll read it to you:

'Drop the case. Next time I will not warn you.'

"Ha! This case becomes more and more singular with ever passing moment! We've got a case for the records here, Watson. I daresay we shall be able to find out quite a lot by attending the nobleman Harland Glover's funeral. But I would not ask you now, dear fellow; I am neglecting your health."

Holmes, despite my protests, once again put my arm over his shoulders and we began the descent to the bottom floor of the theatre. The stairs were a precarious maneuver with my weak sense of balance, but we managed them somehow. I tried to disentangle myself from him at the bottom, for he must have a headache almost as dreadful as mine, but he bluntly refused and continued to assist me out into the street.

Thankfully, we soon found a passing cab. Holmes helped me up, much to my embarrassment, and shouted my address to the cabbie.

"I shall call a doctor as soon as you are home." He said, sitting across from me.

"There is no need." I protested quite vehemently.

"I should like to have your head looked at." He persisted.

"I assure you, Holmes." I growled. "It is only a minor bump. What about you? Are you all right?"

"Swell, Watson." He muttered, but did not say another word on the topic of doctors. I suddenly felt very tired and had to fight to stay awake the rest of the ride home. Holmes tapped me gently on the shoulder when the cab came to a stop, and I opened my eyes from their dozing position.

"Come, Watson." He said, taking my arm and guiding me out the cab.

Mary was at the door when we arrived, and looking very worried, undoubtedly because of the late hour we arrived at. Truthfully, I did not even know the hour, except that it was pitch black outside. I was transferred to Mary from Holmes, who stood awkwardly in the doorway.

"Come in, Mr. Holmes." Mary called to Holmes from the hall, where I was very gingerly making my way to the couch in the sitting room.

Holmes stammered some refusal, but my wife gathered him up and brought him into the sitting room, where he sat tentatively on the edge of a chair. She left to 'get some tea'.

"I'm very sorry about this, Watson."

"S'not your fault, Holmes," I yawned, falling back onto the couch, my legs hanging halfway off. I had just about nodded off when I felt Holmes place my legs on the couch and remove my shoes. I heard my wife enter and the two of them conversed quietly. I caught a few words: 'blankets?', 'Tea, Mr. Holmes?', and my own name several times, both surname and Christian.

I was quite content to drop off right there, assured that everything was perfectly well.

A/N: I'll have you know that that took me _forever _to write. I went through nearly a whole bag of jellybeans.


	7. You're Funny When You're Mad

A/N: Ugh, I haven't updated this in forever. I'm so sorry. Hectic week, hectic weekend. But I'm sure you all care very much about my busy schedule .

**Holmes**

I returned to Baker Street shortly after Watson dropped off, despite Mrs. Watson's insistence that I stay for the night.

As soon as I left, my stomach began to gnaw on itself ferociously. What if Watson had underestimated his concussion, and it hadn't been safe to sleep? He hadn't really been in a position to judge its severity; he could have easily mistaken the intensity.

Mrs. Hudson had retired by the time I arrived at Baker Street, so I was forced to forego the coffee and while away the time with tobacco as my only companion. Cocaine was out of the question, for I would never risk muddling my senses in the middle of a case.

Watson was not the reason I wasn't sleeping, though he contributed to it more than I should like to admit. I think that several times during the night I was nearly out the door to get a doctor who would properly administer to my friend. Once I even had my coat and hat on before I stopped and turned back.

It was deucedly annoying for my stomach to be churning like that when I was trying to think about this case. I was certain now, that the vanilla was what had been hiding the poison. I had seen that shadowy figure tampering with the very vat we fell into before he noticed us. But who had he been? More importantly, whom was he working for? It wasn't Miramaw. He had been quick to prove that when he shot at us. A Miramaw man would have demanded why we were on company property instead of fleeing and shooting at and Watson and I.

Blast it all, I could not think. I'd be sure to tell Watson in no uncertain terms never to get injured again, for he cause me a great deal of discomfort.

**Watson**

Holmes called early the next morning.

I had only just risen. Coupling my already late habits with the little sleep I'd gotten lately, I slept in for a goodly amount of time. I was loath to get up when I did, for my head still ached dreadfully, though now it was dull and distant instead of sharp and piercing.

I was making my way into the kitchen from where I had been sleeping on the couch when the door rang. I had thought to open it myself, but both the maid and Mary beat me to it.

They both entered the hallway from the same door, but the maid went to answer the bell while Mary caught sight of me. I smiled at her.

"Good morning, darling."

She looked dubiously at me. "Are you already feeling well, John?"

"I'm quite well."

"Well, if you're sure, breakfast is on the table and it's not cold yet. I'll wait for you, dear, if you want to freshen up."

I was still wearing the same clothing from last night, and I no doubt looked less than dapper in my current state. I nodded my approval, and had turned to go to our bedroom when the maid called for me from the door.

I turned back, trying to smooth out the worst of my appearance. I expected to see a patient, an early caller. Holmes was not out of the question either, since he was on a case.

I did not expect to see Dr. Anstruther on my front step, and Sherlock Holmes behind him, trying to look uninterested.

"Anstruther. How can I help you?" I asked, cordially, but with an inquiring glance to Holmes over the doctor's shoulder.

"I believe the question is how can _I_ help _you._" He answered, stepping in without invitation. Holmes ambled in innocently behind, admiring the hat stand.

"I hear you've had a bump on the head, Watson?" Anstruther said, setting his bag down and hanging up his coat.

"It's nothing to fret over." I answered, with a malicious glare towards Holmes.

"Nevertheless, I shall have a look at it before I go on my rounds. Mr. Holmes here-" He broke off, digging in his bag. I took the opportunity to exchange glares with Holmes and gesture wildly at him.

Anstruther straightened up. "-was good enough to inform me of it. I hope it's nothing to serious?"

"No. Very minor." I said punctually.

Anstruther examined my head; his hands parting my already rumpled hair to get a good look at the sizeable bump.

"You didn't black out?"

"Only for a few minutes." Holmes raised an eyebrow at this.

"And you slept afterwards?"

"Yes."

"And you're fine now?"

"Perfectly."

Anstruther chuckled, gathering up his things. "Well, Mr. Holmes, there wasn't a reason to fret. Just a nasty bump, and perhaps a minor concussion that's worn off by now. Good day, gentlemen, Mrs. Watson." He nodded to each of us and then exited.

"Really Holmes, there was no need-" I broke off abruptly when I saw his mouth twitching in a smile. "Are you actually _amused_ by this? I don't find it one bit funny, Holmes."

He was serious again in an instant. "No, my dear Watson, I was only amused by your temper."

I flushed. "Now, really, Holmes-"

"Ah, Watson. You are seldom angry with me. I find it amusing that _this_ should be the situation that evokes your temper."

Mary interjected before I could retort. "I think, John, that a change of clothes and some breakfast would do you a world of good."

I sent Holmes one more irritated glare, and tramped upstairs to perform my toilet. I did feel refreshed when I came back down, and a bit ashamed at my little outburst, if you could call it that. I tried to apologize, but Holmes waved it off, insisting that he was the one at fault. I made a mental note to remember the occasion.

"I hope checking on my non-existent concussion wasn't the only reason you called?" I asked, munching on semi-warm bacon.

"No, it wasn't." Holmes said, standing awkwardly beside the table.

"Have a seat Holmes, and take some breakfast."

"No, I'm not hungry."

"Take some breakfast."

He sighed, but sat and forked a meager amount of eggs onto his plate. "Today, Watson, we shall be attending the funeral of Marcellus Glover. That is, if you're willing." He added, glancing up at me.

"Of course." I answered quickly. "Glover's funeral?"

"Yes. I think we will be able to gather some useful information."

"Very well. I daresay my practice will fare well enough without me for a day. We should have caught Anstruther before he left to cover for me."

"I've already asked him." Holmes replied, waving his hand dismissively.

I tried to look angry but could not help the fond smile that was slowly spreading over my lips.

I finished my breakfast and bid farewell to Mary while Holmes stood fidgeting in the hall. I emerged and promptly had my coat and hat thrown into my face. I set about to reprimand him, but he was already halfway out the door.

"Come, Watson, the game's afoot!"

I followed him out, and we fell into the rest of the crowd traveling down Baker Street.


	8. Laughs at a Funeral

**Watson**

I had never been to a nobleperson's funeral before, so was surprised to find it so poorly attended. Holmes had been, and assured me the amount of people was perfectly ordinary. Five mourners and the priest were the only audience besides Holmes and myself. This hampered our ability to blend in to the crowd. The others must have been family and close friends, and shot us some dubious looks throughout the ceremony, but no one approached us, and Holmes dismissed the priest's question with a slick explanation that we were old school friends of Glover's. The family, thank heavens, accepted the cover easily enough.

Soon Holmes had begun a conversation with who I assumed was Glover's wife. It struck me odd that he could be the most solitary and unsociable fellow in normal times, but for the sake of a case he would ramble on for hours with a complete stranger just to acquire that one piece of information.

I tagged along behind Holmes, not really knowing what he was looking for, and trying not to say too much. Holmes had always said my prevaricating skills were horrid, and I did not want to be the one to blow our cover.

The woman, though clearly grievous, attempted to make ample conversation with Holmes.

"It is a pleasure to meet you, sir, though I'm afraid in most unpleasant circumstances. I am Margaret Glover. How did you know Harland? I do not believe I recognize you."

"Indeed, Mrs. Glover. I am Henry Hunter, and this is my associate Mr. Hobbs. As to my relation to your husband, you do not recognize me because we have never met. Your husband and I met some many years ago.

Holmes spun out his thread as easily as if he were telling of his own life. "My friend and I," He began, gesturing towards me, "Were chums of old Harland in school. We were quite the group, along with Bertram Cole."

The woman's eyes lit up in surprise at the name. Her face probably mimicked my own, for the mention of this man was out of the blue.

"Why, Mr. Hunter, I knew Bertram Cole when I first met Harland. He courted me before Harland did. They were great friends, I remember, but I'm afraid they drifted apart when I took to Harland instead of Bertram. The poor man was heartbroken. I wonder, Mr. Hunter, why I did not see you at the time. Surely you were all still friends."

Holmes had been listening raptly to the woman's narrative with peaked ears and sharp eyes, but now slipped into his character once again.

"Ah, yes. After school, Mr. Hobbs and I pursued careers in the armed forces, and our correspondence with Harland and Bertram was limited. I'm sorry to hear they were estranged."

"A shame." Mrs. Glover said, and the conversation flowed into other channels.

The official ceremony began not long after. I felt somberness for the death of this man whom his family talked so warmly of. Disposal of human life was always a terrible thing to me.

As soon as the talking had ceased and the eyes of the audience were elsewhere, Holmes snuck up to the casket. I followed after a sideways glance at the family.

The ceremony was open casket, but I doubt a closed one would have stopped Holmes in his investigation. To my horror, he approached the corpse and began prodding and poking it.

"Notice, Watson," he murmured under his breath, "the distinct reddish tinge to the skin that is tell-tale of cyanide poisoning*." He moved the head, lifting the closed eyelids. He suddenly gave a loud, short burst of laughter.

"Here, Watson, pupil dilation and reddened eyes as well!"

I didn't respond more than a nervous gulp, for the whole of the funeral party had turned upon Holmes and I with various shades of disdain and outrage written on their faces. Holmes seemed entirely unaffected by their angry scrutinizing, but I dug my hand under my collar.

Holmes grabbed me by the arm and pulled me out of the building. I had no qualms about beating a hasty retreat. I was profusely grateful there had not been of the official force around, for I was sure that if tampering with a corpse was not illegal it was at least suspicious activity.

We walked at a quick pace away from the building, but slowed once it was out of sight. Holmes seemed in an extremely jovial mood, especially after just attending a funeral.

"The threads begin to weave together, Watson. You see what this latest excursion has showed us?"

I saw only the obvious, but I was sure Holmes had miraculously deduced some nearly impossible but brilliant theory out of it all.

"You seem to think that the poison used was cyanide. I cannot deduce anything more from it."

Holmes raised his eyebrows and smiled. "Perhaps, Watson, I have the advantage here. You do not know who Bertram Cole is?"

"I cannot say I do."

"That explains much. Cole, in addition to being on of the young Mrs. Glover's suitors, is the owner of McDermott and Cole, rival spice distributor to Miramaw."

This development did brighten some things for me. "Then- why, Holmes, you think Bertram Cole is the perpetrator of all this?"

"We can adopt that as a working hypothesis. But we still have some noticeable holes in our theory."

Something had just struck me. "You don't really think he would have killed Glover just because Glover married Mrs. Margaret instead of him?"

Holmes frowned. "I think, Watson, that man has committed wickeder crimes for lesser offences before, and it is certainly possible that he has killed Harland Glover, if he has, for just that reason."

"But what offense does he have against the sailor?" I asked. "Was it he who shot at us in the factory? How does he even figure into the equation if it is _Miramaw_ who has been accused of the poisonings?"

"Have you noticed, Watson, that the main accuser is McDermott and Cole? You have summed up the difficulties nicely. We have only to find the missing pieces now."

* * *

A/N: It seems the only time I'm able to write for this is on the weekends. :(

A note on researches:

"Among the aristocracy when a person dies, unless he is some great general or other public character, no one attends the funeral except the immediate family of the deceased."- From 'The Victorian Dictionary'.

If you've never been to that site, I'd advise you to check it out. Talk about wealth of information. It's

*I'm fairly sure cyanide was around at the time, though I couldn't find a definite date of discovery. Hydrogen cyanide certainly was. Cyanide makes the body turn a reddish pinkish tinge after death, and noticeable symptoms are pupil dilation and red-rimmed eyes. We can speculate that Holmes, who was "well up in…poisons generally" might know this.


	9. Can't Understand What I Mean?

A/N: If anyone has been waiting for an update, I'm terribly sorry. Life has an annoying way of butting writing out of the way.

Psst, this is set in somewhere near 1899, so let's say it was before CHAS, though that doesn't have too much bearing on the story.

* * *

**Holmes**

I checked my pocket watch, and finding the morning breathing its last gasps, turned to Watson.

"I propose luncheon at Claridge's* if you have the time to spare, Watson."

"Certainly.'

We called a cab and made our way to Brook Street, where the restaurant was located. The ride was spent in silence, Watson catching up on his notes for the case in that notebook he always kept in his pocket and I pondering the case.

The threads were coming together. We now had a culprit, a culprit with a motive. Cole's participation in this fiasco fit the facts snuggly. There was one thing that puzzled me- the murdering of the sailor. We knew Cole had killed Glover out of jealousy and bitter resentment, but what qualms would he have with this man of a much lower class? It was an inquiry that would take some footwork.

Hardly any time had passed before we had arrived. Watson hopped out and beckoned me.

"Come on, old boy, I'm famished."

I made a skeptical face, for I myself was not hungry at all, and it really hadn't been _that_ long since we'd last eaten. Well, it had been at breakfast. I suppose the fellow did have reason to be hungry after all.

Watson strutted in and claimed us a table by the window. I sat and waited for him to order. To my surprise he order two dishes.

"At this rate you'll have Mrs. Watson letting out your trousers a mile a minute."

He looked up with a small smile. "One's for you, Holmes."

I spluttered about for a minute before resuming my usual countenance and settling myself with a dignified "humph".

We conversed about all kinds of useless, albeit interesting things until our entrees came. Watson shoveled a few bites into his mouth eagerly. I nibbled and pushed the food around on the plate, knowing it was better to appear hungry that face Watson's wrath.

Soon he brought the case up again. "What do you propose to do next?"

I took a sip of my wine and whirled it about. He looked on eagerly. I really could never resist an opportunity to build up tension.

"The selection of that sailor as one of the victims still perturbs me. I'm going to break into Cole's office and see if I might be able to find some hint of why he was killed. I believe it may be the key to proving Cole's guilt."

Watson looked at me dubiously. "Break in? I am all for justice, Holmes, but this is an outright felony. What if you find nothing?"

"I am sure I will find _something_ of importance."

"What, then, if you are caught? It would ruin you career, Holmes."

I paused for a moment. Failure would indeed ruin my career, but success would only bolster it more. It was risky, but so were many of the other things I did in my unique profession.

"It will be done, Watson, with your consent or not " I retorted firmly. "Tonight." I added, as the final word.

He sighed and closed his eyes, leaning back. "Fine. When do we leave?"

I furrowed my brows. "You are not coming."

He opened his eyes and leaned forward, alert. "Why not?"

I frowned. "You can be of no help to me." This was an outright lie, and I expect he knew it, for he scoffed loudly at my words. Undoubtedly he could be great help to me, but it was dangerous enough with one of us, and I would certainly be the one taking the risk, not him.

"I'm coming, Holmes, whether I can be of help to you or not. I'm sure you could use a lookout, anyway."

I nearly refused once again, but his determined gaze choked off my words and shoved them back down my throat, resulting in a little strangled cough.

"Fine." I conceded. "You may come, but by God be careful."

"I always am."

-----

We spend the rest of the afternoon ambling around the town, wandering into any shops that caught Watson's attention. We went into quite a few bookstores, where he would become engrossed in some romantic novel for a good while and I would be left to occupy myself inside the store.

It was in this way that I found the selection (a rather large one, I might add) of Watson's accounts of our cases. I picked up one in interest, examining the layout and reading the first few sentences, which were not too deplorable.

I flipped through the pamphlet, now very intrigued, and came upon a odious illustration** of what I suppose was a likeliness of Watson and I, though the fellow who had done it had certainly never seen either of us. I snorted in contempt, drawing an odd glance from the fellow next to me. He started, crying out softly, for I suppose he recognized me, though I don't see how if he was drawing from the picture.

I hurried away as fast as I could, gathering up Watson and pulling him from the store where he gave an indignant cry.

"What was that all about, Holmes?"

I fabricated on the spot. "We're done with that store, I think."

Thankfully, no further mishaps occurred and we made it safely to nightfall. Watson had sent his wife a telegram that he had 'thrown in his lot' with me, and we grabbed a quick dinner at the nearest café before hailing a cab to the premises of McDermott & Cole.

"All right, Watson, I've had some considerable experience with this sort of thing-"

"Some considerable experience!" He cried, eyes widening. "You don't mean-"

"I mean with picking locks, Watson." He visibly relaxed. The poor fellow was really not cut out for breaking the law. He was much too honest.

"We'll go through a back door." I continued. "And make our way up to Cole's office, where we'll find whatever evidence of his guilt that we can, and then go out the way we came."

"What if we meet someone?"

"I don't doubt we shall have much trouble overtaking them."

He straightened up, squaring his shoulders. "I'm with you, Holmes."

Good old Watson.

"I think that we will have quite the success, then."

* * *

A/N: If that one part seems very similar to CHAS, that's because it is. One of my favorite moments in the canon is when Watson says, "When do we leave?" and Holmes says, "You're not coming", then the following conversation. It makes me very happy.

*Real restaurant on Brook Street (now Swains Lane), and rather high up.

**If you want to see that odious picture (it really looks nothing like them, or at least in my mind), just Google search "Sherlock Holmes D.H. Friston" on images. It's got Lestrade and Gregson in it as well. It was _A Study in Scarlet_ that Holmes picked up.


	10. I've Rug Burns on Both My Knees

A/N: I've got a healthy amount of writing time, and I'm going to utilize it.

I felt like I should be listening to the Mission Impossible theme song while writing this.

* * *

**Watson**

I felt no little trepidation when we pulled up to the factory. Holmes may be ever the cool, collected criminal, but I had no experience with breaking the law. The place possessed an essence of foreboding. Even the river seemed to mock me, rolling along calmly as if we weren't about to commit a felony*.

I felt a rush stepping out of the carriage, and my heart seemed to travel quickly up my throat. I wasn't sure if what I was extremely nervous or extremely enthralled.

"Calm yourself, Watson." Holmes muttered.

I tried. I truly did. But I felt the same feeling, or perhaps more of it, when we made our way to a small door on the side of the building. I stood with my back to the wall, scanning the vicinity for any threats while Holmes bent to pick the lock.

I was listening acutely, but the clicking and scrapings of Holmes's** work seemed to drown everything out. I began to fidget, willing him to hurry and wishing I had never gotten myself involved in this.

He stood up, replacing his picks back into their case and smiling at me.

"We're in."

He stepped into the dark building. I took a deep swallow, pulled myself together, and looked back once more before following him in.

Maybe it was the fact that we had gotten in without any trouble, but I felt much more like myself in the building. Holmes was already poking about, dashing from one doorway to another. How he could see in the darkness was anyone's guess.

He beckoned to me eagerly from one, putting a finger to his lips. I tiptoed over, looking over his shoulder to see a dimly lit staircase. Holmes started up it with I close behind. We came to a hallway, which Holmes studied for a moment before turning left. He must have had a map of the building in his mind, for he seemed to know exactly where he was going.

We were going faster now, practically running. Holmes stopped abruptly at a doorway, turning left and rushing up another staircase. He possessed all the energy of a hound close upon a scent.

The hallway this time was shorter. Holmes made straight for the second door. He grabbed the doorknob and tried to wrench it open, nearly dislocating his shoulder in the process. It was locked.

"Keep a watch, Watson." He muttered excitedly, bending over once more to pick the lock. He had this one open in a matter of seconds, throwing open the door and rushing in.

The room was full of papers and furniture, a regular office. It was _very_ nicely furnished- the owner was obviously an important figure, as only one with their surname in the title of a company could be.

I assured myself of the safety of the room then went back to the doorway to keep watch. I could hear Holmes moving behind me, throwing papers across the room and opening and closing drawers.

Then I heard a sound that froze the very blood in my veins.

Footsteps on the stairs.

"Holmes!" I hissed. "Someone's coming!"

He didn't look up. "One moment, Watson! I've almost got it!"

They were getting closer. "Holmes!"

"One moment!"

I could hear them now in the hallway. They were getting faster. Holmes, oblivious as ever, still stood scribbling something on his cuff. We had no time- they were nearly here-

I dashed across the room, tackling Holmes and bring us both under the cover of the desk. At almost at the same instant the door opened and the footsteps paused.

I stopped breathing, listening with all my might and willing them to move on, though my heart pounding so loudly in my ears was sure to give us away.

Holmes didn't dare move from his bent over position, glancing at me.

There were surely two of them. I listened in horror as they came closer, closer. They stopped at the edge of the desk, close enough for me to reach out and touch them.

"Someone's been here!" a voice exclaimed. On an impulse I jumped up and decked the man with a straight right cross, pushing the other into a chair before he had time to react and rushing out the door. I nearly called out to Holmes, but he was at my side before the words had left my mouth, grabbing my arm and dragging me with him.

We ran at a breakneck pace down the corridor, flying down the staircase. To my disappointment, I heard our apprehenders pounding after us.

We took a different staircase down, and a different door outside, arriving at what I presumed to be the other side of the building than the one we had entered through. Certainly we could see the Thames on this side.

Holmes looked left then right, then darted left, his hand still clenched to my coat sleeve.

"Come!" He called, not daring to use my name should our pursuers hear it and ascertain our identity.

They were gaining on us much too quickly. My dread grew as they came closer, one snatching at our backs and catching a handful of my coat. I lost my footing, tumbling forward. Holmes released his grip on me, but not after he too had been thrown to the ground.

I kicked out at the man closest to me, the one who had grabbed my coat. He grunted and recoiled, giving me time to stumble to my feet, only to be faced with our other opponent, who set upon me as soon as I was up.

He pushed me backwards before I could react. I slipped over some sort of ledge, somersaulting backwards and taking the man with me. My face hit the ground hard. I spat out the earthy mixture that had found its way into my mouth.

My back and shoulders were saturated with the lapping water of the Thames. I lay upon the banks of the river, at the very edge of the water.

I had sat up, trying to clear the sand from my eyes when my opponent put his hands around my throat.

I clenched up, my hands shooting straight to the offending area. I wrestled with his fingers, trying to pry them from my neck. He had not succeeded in cutting off my airway completely, only restricting it enough that I was having a hard time of it.

I gasped, feeling my arms weaken and his fingers tighten. I didn't think I could hold on much longer…

Glorious oxygen rushed through my airways once more. I sucked in gulps of it, coughing twice to clear my lungs. I saw Holmes pull the man off me, throwing him into the current. He looked about to follow up on it, but I stood unsteadily and grabbed his arm.

A change came over his features. He took my elbow and led me up the steep bank, to the road.

"What happened to the other?" I asked, my voice a little hoarse.

"I dispatched him with a blow to the head." Holmes answered, looking very proud of himself. "We must make haste. They've probably sounded the alarm."

We made as much haste as we could in our weakened state. We were both wet from the river and exhausted from the struggle. My limp was becoming positively bothersome. Holmes made no mention of it, but kept my elbow firmly in his grip the entirety of the time.

It was with great pleasure that we caught sight of a cab. I think the cabbie passed our disheveled countenance off as drunkenness. He had probably seen worse riding about in the middle of the night.

I collapsed on the seat, and Holmes did the same beside me. I had to fight to stay awake.

We returned to Baker Street for the night. I paid the cabbie a princely sum, for I was too tired to count out the correct amount, and we stumbled into the house. Mrs. Hudson was no doubt asleep, a fact for which I was rather thankful. A cup of hot tea may have been nice, but her fussing would be hard to endure in this state.

We took of our wet coats and shoes in the hall. I looked wistfully up the stairs. My old room was so very far away.

"I think I'll sleep on the settee tonight, Holmes."

He nodded knowingly. "By all means, my dear fellow."

Holmes was in the sitting room before I, stoking the fire and throwing an afghan onto the sofa. He gave me a tired smile and a nod before disappearing into his room.

The settee had never looked more inviting then at that moment. I fell onto it and wrapped the blanket about myself, shutting my eyes and knowing that I was going to have a devil of a cold the next morning.

* * *

A/N: I was a bit broken up over what to do here with the water. I was originally going to drop them both in the Thames, but I couldn't do it without doing Watson's water phobia; an idea that I most readily subscribe to. That whole drowning-water scene has been so well done before (Vows Made In Storms comes most readily to mind) that I decided to leave the whole thing out. Maybe someday I'll be brave enough to attempt it.

*It's hardly a felony, but he's a little freaked out.

** Does anyone know what the proper term is: Holmes' or Holmes's? I've seen Holmes's in the canon, but I always though it was supposed to be Holmes'.


	11. A Tendency to Wear My Mind on My Sleeve

**Watson**

The first thing I did when I woke up was sneeze. That was a blow to my feeble hope that I wouldn't catch a cold. The ache in my muscles and back didn't help either.

I sat up and looked about. Holmes had not yet come out of his room. Either it was still fairly early, then, or he was brooding.

I raised my arms to stretch and found my clothes stiff and still a little damp. I must've looked a poor sight. There were still some of my old clothes in my room upstairs. I rose from the sofa and trekked up the stairs to my old bedroom.

Holmes kept it as a bedroom, though it was more barren than before since I had taken almost all my belongings to my new house. It was useful when I came for visits and such, but I was surprised that he did not turn it into a chemical laboratory or something of the sort. It was one of the things Holmes did that (however unintentionally) showed me he actually _did_ have a soul.

I found a suitable change of clothes and performed my toilet. Holmes must have warned Mrs. Hudson of my coming, for there was water in the washbasin and soap on the table.

Done with my morning duties, I made my way to the sitting room, feeling considerably fresher. I hoped Holmes was up so I could ring for breakfast instead of waiting.

A loud noise made me pause at the sitting room door. I heard a voice- not that of my friend's- speaking in an unfriendly tone.

I should like to say that I am a man of action, and so flung open the door. A tall, gangly man stood with his back to me. He held a revolver at arms length pointed straight at Holmes, who looked like he had just woken up.

The intruder's head swiveled towards me when I had opened the door, but he kept his gun on Holmes. I gave him no time to shoot anyone, leaping forward and twisting his arm back, effectively relieving him of the gun and getting him in my grasp in the same move.

Holmes opened his mouth in surprise. "Good man!"

"Who's this, Holmes?" I asked, struggling to keep the squirming fellow still.

"That is precisely what I was asking when you so punctually burst it. Let's see if we have any luck now that he is on the receiving end of the threats."

"I won't tell you nothin', gov.," our prisoner snarled.

"Then I will tell you. You work for Bertram Cole."

The man's face blanched and he went rigid. "No."

Holmes laughed. "I'm afraid you've already proven the contrary with your body language. Would you be so good as to confirm another thing for me? The next victim of your poisonings is Lord Vandenberg, is it not?"

Holmes must've read something affirmative on the man's face, for he smirked.

"Then the only thing left to know is your own-"

I inhaled sharply as the man twisted backwards and wrenched my bad shoulder almost out of its socket. I immediately released his arm and staggered against the wall. The man darted out of the sitting room and pounded down the stairs. Holmes dashed to the hallway and poked his head down the stairs.

I gingerly held my bad shoulder with my other arm. The pain was intense. The fellow must have twisted the scar tissue and irritated the muscle where Jezail bullet fragments were still lodged.

Holmes returned to the sitting room, rushing over to me and taking my good arm.

"Are you all right, Watson?"

I nodded through clenched teeth. Holmes led me to the nearest chair, into which I sunk gratefully.

"Holmes, the man, you could still catch him-"

"No, Watson, I shall stay here. You don't have your bag with you?"

I was so taken aback by his decision that I stuttered for an answer. "No, it's at my house."

"No matter. May I get you a pain reliever?"

I shook my head despite my throbbing shoulder. "No, it will be fine with some rest."

"My dear fellow, I insist."

I conceded, partly due to Holmes and partly to the overwhelming ache in my shoulder. "Something mild, then."

Holmes went off to fetch a powder, mixing it with a glass of water. I drunk it down quickly, willing it to take effect sooner rather than later.

"What was he here for?" I asked.  
"I should think to silence me at the order of his superior. I daresay he did not count on you being here."

I let out a breath. "What luck that I was. Did you get any new information from him?"

"Nothing that I did not already suspect. We are close, Watson, very close." Holmes went to the mantle piece, taking up his pipe and stuffing it.

"Would you care for some breakfast, Watson?"

In all the excitement I had forgotten all about food, but now my stomach reiterated its wants loudly.

"That would be lovely."

Holmes yelled down the stairs to Mrs. Hudson for breakfast. I winced. He would not just use the pull bell.

"I am sending a wire to Scotland Yard to keep an eye on Lord Vandenberg." Holmes called from his bedroom, where he was now rummaging for something. "If they can catch Cole in the act we shall have him."

"How do you know Cole will target him next?" I called.

He emerged with a soiled shirt cuff and tossed it to me. It was the same he had worn when we snuck into Cole's office. He had scrawled some information on it, I remembered. He must have seen my questioning expression over its deplorable condition. "I'm afraid much of the writing was blurred and washed off by the river during our little swim." He explained.

"'Lord Vandenberg' was written on several pieces of paper on Cole's desk, along with his address and a floor plan to his house." Holmes continued. "Our intruder friend was good enough to confirm the point for us."

"What reason does Cole have to kill Lord Vandenberg?" I asked.

Holmes sniffed. "I do not think he has a reason. He is killing randomly now, causing as much slander as he can."

* * *

A/N: Bit short, I think. We're getting there.


	12. Your Brain Stops Ticking

A/N: _I_ didn't even remember what had happened in this story, so I'll summarize the last chapter.

Watson intercepted one of Bertram Cole's cronies just as he was threatening Holmes. They questioned the crony and found that Cole was not killing in any specified order.

* * *

**Watson**

"If Cole is killing randomly," I said to Holmes, "How do you explain the connection between Marcellus Glover and him? Surely there was some underlying jealousy?"

"There is the exception to his _modus operandi_," Holmes retorted swiftly, indicating that he had already thought out the answer. "Glover was his first victim. He had a reason to want him dead, and so thought to get him out of the way while also causing damage to the reputation of the rival company."

"He most be a cold fellow," I muttered. "To be able to kill innocent strangers over such a trivial matter."

Holmes nodded, standing up. He walked over to the window and stared out into the street with a distant look on his face. I could tell he was in one of his rare introspective moments and so did not intrude on his thoughts.

"All the human race is thrown together onto this earth, united by brotherhood of man, and yet we continuously and repeatedly attempt to cause harm to each other in order to better our own individual means. I fear that we are irreversibly corrupt."

He was not talking to me any more that he was talking to the curtains, but I listened raptly, for when Holmes dabbles in psychology he can produce fascinating ideas.

He turned once again to look out the window somberly.

It was a short while before he snapped out of his reverie and turned to face me, once again the stoic detective.

"I've kept you too long, Watson. No doubt you have some professional duties to attend to.

I stood, gathering my coat and hat. "Send word if the case develops."

Holmes gave some utterance of assent, but was already lost to the world before I had even reached the door, drawing out a chilling melody on his Stradivarius.

I did have a few small rounds to do so as to compensate my neglected patients of the last few days. To my great relief they did not last long and I was soon able to return to my home.  
I spent the rest of the day with Mary in the sitting room, reading an old novel I was fond of and chatting with my wife. My arm ached once the pain reliever had worn off but I tested it a few times and surmised that the tissue was not any more permanently damaged than it had been before it was twisted.

Mary was eager to hear of our exploits on the case so far, so I caught her up to this morning.

I heard naught from Holmes the next day, and most of the one after that. It was early in the evening when I next heard form him, albeit indirectly.

I had carried out my day normally, going through my rounds and working at my practice. Mary and I had enjoyed a pleasant dinner and were about to retire to the sitting room when the door bell rung loudly. I was close to the door and so went to open it.

I had to look down to find my visitor, one of the bedraggled young boys that Holmes had dubbed 'The Baker Street Irregulars'. This particular boy wore a coat and scarf two sizes too big for him and sported a wild mess of cream-colored hair. He fidgeted urgently, rubbing the paper in his hand between his pointer and thumb.

"For you, sir," He panted, breathing like he had just from a long and swift run. I took the not from his outstretched hand and unfolded it carefully.

I recognized the handwriting immediately, despite the fact that I rarely saw it. It was Mrs. Hudson's orderly scrawl, rushed and slanted as if written in a hurry. My eyes flew over the words, widening as they did. The message read thus:

_Dear Dr. Watson,_

_ Mr. Holmes has taken ill and is steadily declining. I fear he may drop lower and lower as the night goes on. I implore you to come as soon as it is convenient and look to him. He will permit me no Doctor but you. _

_Yours,_

_Mrs. Hudson_

I felt a growing sense of dread mixed with irritation as I read the brief message. I would be thoroughly vexed if Holmes had contracted an illness from lack of proper nourishment. I had lectured him countless times on the subject and really would have no sympathy for him if he had brought this on himself.

But there was always the possibility that this was something far more serious and not self-inflicted. I would go straight away to Baker Street, then.

Mary sent me off with a well wish and a kiss into a waiting hansom, where I spent the short carriage ride to my old rooms half-brooding and half-worrying. I read the message once more to try to ascertain something more about the situation that had not presented itself on first glance. The only thing I succeeded in doing was to feel some sort of ridiculous pride that I was the only doctor he would permit.

I worked myself into such a frenzy that I was out of the hansom and bounding up the stairs before it had even rolled to a complete stop. I pounded on the door and was let in swiftly by a distressed Mrs. Hudson.

"Oh, Doctor, thank goodness you're here." She gushed, clutching my forearms. "He's in a terrible state, I can't seen to get him to improve."

I blanched at the few words and her desperate tone, far more revealing than the short note could ever be. I pulled off my coat and hat and calmed Mrs. Hudson with some comforting words.

I made my way up the stairs and into the sitting room, which looked much the same as it had the last time I'd been there. Holmes's door was closed, but when I tried the knob it turned easily and granted me entrance.

Holmes lay on his back with the covers pulled up to his chin, looking terribly pale and sickly. Sweat shone on his forehead and his fingers trembled ever so slightly on the coverlet. His hair lay in a mess on the pillow, far from his usual neat comb. His eyes were closed when I came in, but the opened when I pulled over a chair and sat next to his bed.

He looked at me in a considerable state of confusion, staring at me without recognizing me for several moments. Then he blinked an exhaled my name.

"Watson."

"Yes."

I retrieved my stethoscope from my bag and took a listening of his heart. It was somewhat weak, but that could just be a sign of illness. He was breathing rather heavily and in slightly short gasps. Skin tone was not regular, but that could be expected with any ailment.

"What did you do, Holmes?"

"That's just it." He replied weakly. "Nothing. I've done absolutely nothing to become sick."

I raised an eyebrow. "You've been eating and sleeping properly?"

"Yes."

"Then you think…this has been done by a third party?"

Holmes stared at me for a long time, until I saw his eyes fade and become distant. He blinked a few times and shook his head as if trying to clear it.

"When you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable-" At this he trailed off, breathing far more heavily than he should have been and clutching his stomach. For a moment I thought he was going to be sick.

"…Must be the truth." I finish softly. Obviously Holmes was in a terrible state of disarray. The sudden fits of confusion told of some sinister ailment. I needed to diagnose him as soon as I could, but the visible symptoms were so general, except for the difficulty breathing, that it could have been any of fifty illnesses that plagued Holmes.

"Tell me your symptoms, Holmes."

He took a deep breath. "A headache…difficulty breathing…and nausea. I feel…terribly weak, Watson."

At this he closed his eyes and seemed to pass out, a fact that alarmed me. He was weaker than he should be for any trivial illness. I would have to find out what this was quickly as I could. To wait any longer could mean the worst for Holmes.

* * *

A/N: Plot twist!

Some research about this ailment I thought I'd share with you…can you guess what it is?

The health effects from high levels of (guess what!) exposure can begin in seconds to minutes. Some signs and symptoms of such exposures are:

Weakness and confusion

Headache

Nausea/feeling "sick to your stomach"

Gasping for air and difficulty breathing

Loss of consciousness/"passing out"

Seizures

Cardiac arrest

The severity of health effects depends upon the route and duration of exposure, the dose, and the form of (guess what!).

A pretty little predicament, eh?


	13. I'm Getting Frantic

A/N: Thanks very much to _Mina Shelley_, who correctly guessed the ailment and gave me some wonderful info on it.

I'd meant to get this out earlier tonight, but then I started to read some forums and, yeah. I hope you all haven't died of anxiety.

* * *

**  
Watson**

I stood up from the bedside chair only to feel my legs wobble and have to sit down again with a deep shuddering breath. This was no trifling illness Holmes had contracted. My friend's life was very probably in extreme danger here, with only my hands to prevent it from flickering out. I was very heavily debating calling in a more qualified doctor, if only I could trust Holmes to let one treat him.

_Control_, I willed myself. I was quickly becoming frantic. I needed to calm down and treat this like it was just a normal day at my practice, a patient waiting to be diagnosed.

I couldn't possibly do that when my dearest friend was the one with his life on the line…

I mentally shook myself and stood up abruptly, thankfully staying on my feet this time. Diagnosis first. I would need to find out what Holmes was ailing from if I would be able to fight it.

The symptoms so far were fairly general, though shortness of breath was an exception. He wasn't getting enough oxygen…but what could have caused that? There was something, deep in the back of my mind that pertained to the subject. Something I had read…

I dashed into the sitting room, a sudden fervor overtaking me. There was no telling how long this illness might take to kill Holmes. I rushed over to my bookshelf where several medical indexes were housed. Grabbing the nearest one, I flipped it open to "respiratory failings". A scanning of the entry found nothing that could help me. On to the next book.

My other general medical books yielded neither hide nor hair of assistance. I slumped onto the settee, my hair in a wild state of array and dusty from exploring the old volumes, and my jacket long since discarded. I must've looked the image of disappointment and frustration. I _knew _I had read something on the subject, I just for the life of me- or, in this case, the life of Holmes- couldn't remember where.

I heaved myself up and resolved to return to the sickroom. Shuffling across the sitting room and feeling very much like I had failed him, I cast my eyes to my desk in one last desperate attempt.

As soon as I saw it –the latest edition of _The British Medical Journal-_ my memory started to work again. I had read it only yesterday, an article about a poison that caused respiratory failings, among other symptoms. I snatched it up and immediately rifled through the pages. I found the familiar article promptly- the poison discussed was cyanide.

Cyanide.

_"Notice, Watson," he murmured under his breath, "the distinct reddish tinge to the skin that is tell-tale of cyanide poisoning,"_

What an utter idiot I'd been. Of course! If this man Cole would kill perfect strangers he would have no qualms murdering a man about to expose him as a felon. He must have found someway to poison Holmes's food. Dear God, I hoped it was not a fatal dose. If I were to have any chance at all I had to keep Holmes under careful observation.

With this enlightenment and realization I rushed back into Holmes's room with the journal still clutched in my hand.

Holmes lay on the bed, motionless. Too motionless.

I could feel my eyes widen, my heart rise up into my throat.

With more than a little trepidation but all speed I approached Holmes, pressing my fingers to the artery in his neck and feeling for a pulse.

It was there, fairly strong. But his breathing was so detained that his chest barely rose and fell with each breath.

I settled into the bedside chair once again, pouring a glass of water from the pitcher to calm my nerves. I had no doubt that the water would turn to brandy if Holmes's condition got much worse. I was neither inwardly or outwardly as stony as the detective.

Reassured that my friend was safe for the moment, I opened the journal again and began to reread the articles. It told of the use of cyanide for poisonings, a relatively new practice. Holmes's symptoms matched those listed, but to my horror I saw _seizures_ and _cardiac arrest_ also on the list. I prayed it would not come to that.

If I was to redeem myself, I must make all haste. One point the article made abundantly clear was "_Delay of treatment may result in death." _Let there be no delay, then.

The article suggested a cure for the cyanide poisonings occurring recently in American mines*, but I supposed it could work just as well for Holmes. It would have to. The suggested solution was sodium thiosulfate, a thus unheard chemical to me. I started in the logical place- Holmes's chemistry table. The jars were all labeled in his minute scrawl, but unfortunately not organized in any way or form that I recognized.

The bottles filled two shelves next to the desk. I examined each one's label for a match for what seemed like an unbearably long time. I was getting extremely discouraged by the time I had finished the first shelf. It was a very uncommon mixture; what were the chances of Holmes owning it?

For the second time that day Providence smiled down on me, for written on the third bottle of the second shelf was '_sodium thiosulfate'_. I clasped my fist around it and let out a relieved breath.

I treated the small bottle with more protectiveness than any other inanimate object ever in my life, clutching it close to my chest the length of the journey to Holmes's room.

The journal had described treatment as intravenous, so I readied a syringe and carefully poured out the suggested dose.

I hesitated before actually injecting the dose into his forearm- this was still an experimental method; no one had actually proved its worth or its safety before.

But I had no other means of curing my friend. This would have to do, experimental or not. I pushed in the syringe, injecting Holmes with the solution and hopefully the antidote.

I spent the next few minutes in a surreal state- I had not yet actually processed everything that had happened. I mechanically cleaned the syringe and replaced it in my medical bag. My medical indexes were still strewn everywhere in the sitting room, so I removed myself from Holmes's room to put them back in their proper place.

In the middle of replacing a book on my desk the events of the night hit me with the force of a solid brick wall and I plopped down on the settee, suddenly exhausted. Physically, I was quite well. Mentally, and emotionally, I was done in. This escapade had strained my nerves to their limit.

Brandy was surely appropriate now.

* * *

A/N: Do you know how _incredibly_ difficult it is to find information about if nitrites and thiosulfates were developed in the 19th century? VERY. Eh, well, here's what I found.

There are two (widely accepted) cures for cyanide poisoning. These are sodium nitrite and sodium thiosulfate. By the way, kudos to Mina Shelly for knowing that!

"**Sodium Nitrite** solution is injected directly into the bloodstream in cases of Cyanide poisoning"-

This was my first choice, as injecting, but unfortunately sodium nitrite wasn't developed until the 1960s (I'm fairly sure).

"He discovered **sodium thiosulfate** to be a solvent of silver halides in 1819, and informed Talbot and Daguerre of his discovery that this "hyposulphite of soda" ("hypo") could be used as a photographic fixer, to "fix" pictures and make them permanent, .."

I couldn't find a development date for this as a cure to cyanide poisonings, so we'll have to be satisfied with the fact that they at least knew what it was in 1819.

*There's this online newspaper archive I can access via my library that has loads of old newspapers from 1700 to present, all over the world. When searching for 'cyanide poisoning' in the years 1880-1900, I found several mentions of cyanide poisonings related to mining incidents in America. So, *plop* into story.


	14. Get That Together

A/N: Methinks it's time for some Holmes POV. I can sympathize with him a bit because I suddenly contracted a cold this morning, though I'm pretty sure a cold isn't quite as bad as cyanide poisoning.

* * *

**Holmes**

I awoke in the particular jolting manner that invariably follows and restless slumber. I kept my eyes closed, preferring to sort out the inside of my head before attempting to conquer the outside. My mind was very muddled, yet I could establish the fact that it _was_ muddled. I felt generally weak, in body and mind, though I could not see why sleep would produce such an effect on me.

I decided that I had gathered as much as was possible without using my observatory faculties and thus opened my eyes. There was an instant of intense clarity, then everything became increasingly blurry and unsteady. There were a few candles lit on my bedside table, and though I knew they weren't giving off much light they irritated my head terribly. As soon as this thought crossed my mind my head became to ache abominably.

I was aware enough to recognize the familiar setting of my bedroom, though the reliability my vision fluctuated.

My throat and jaw now added their complaints to the list of maladies. This was curious- apart from a general tiredness in every bone of my body I could not pinpoint an exact spot of irritation. It had been illness then, not injuries. And it was bad enough that I could not recollect the source.

I was cold despite the several heavy blankets piled atop me already. My arm was being deucedly stubborn reaching for the quilt on the chair next to, but I reached it eventually and dragged onto the bed.

There was one point about this business that did not match up: if it had been a medical malady of some sort that had ailed me, and now I was cured; Watson should be here. It was odd that he was not hovering at my bedside-

"Holmes!"

Ah, punctuality, thou name is Watson.

In a second he had resumed his rightful spot in the chair drawn up to the bed and was interrogating me tirelessly.

"You're awake."

"You've all the brilliance of the Yard, Watson." I croaked. Dear me, was that raspy whisper _my _voice?

His reply to my attempt at humor was a relieved smile tinted with the slightest bit of hysteria. I wondered how bad it had gotten.

"How do you feel?" he asked.

"Like an ill swine."

"You were. Not a swine, but ill."

"What was it?" I asked, a little apprehensive about his answer.

Watson leaned back in the chair, extending his legs out and letting his head fall back.

"I was hoping you could tell me." He answered.

I strained my memory, but could think of nothing I had done that would have gotten me seriously ill.

"It was cyanide poisoning." Watson interjected into my thoughts.

"Cyanide?" I rasped, considerably shocked. "The food poisoning- or shall we say murder- victims were all poisoned with cyanide by-"

"Bertram Cole." Watson finished, crossing his arms. "He's on to you as you are to him, Holmes. This case is getting dangerous. I implore you to ask the aid of the police.

"Not yet!" I cried. "Not yet. If the police are involved word will undoubtedly get out. It is best to play our cards close to our chest and keep Cole under the illusion that I am still ill, possibly dead."

Watson looked discontented but didn't argue with me. I would not have had the strength to fight back if he did. This small conversation had already cost me more energy than I would have liked. I lay back on the pillows and stared up at the ceiling.

If I could devise a plan to catch Cole red handed there would be no need for police. He would be unarmed and unaided if we planned it right. It was only regrettable that I must recover before carrying out my plan.

"It's how you got yourself poisoned that baffles me." Watson said.

"It is a most perplexing puzzle. I haven't been out to eat since dining with you, and if the poison had been in that you would have been poisoned as well. All the rest of my food has been prepared by Mrs. Hudson, who is above suspicion."

"Could it have been indirect?"

I thought on it for a moment. "You've a theory there, Watson. Perhaps something has been tampered with in Mrs. Hudson's food store. In fact, there is a window in the kitchen that opens out into the street. It is possible someone may have dropped a substance onto a dish cooling in the window."

I relapsed back into thought and Watson back into silence. After a while he spoke again.

"Are you hungry, Holmes?" Watson was standing, making his way towards the door.

"Famished." I answered truthfully. For once, my body was making clear its superficial needs.

Watson nodded. "I'll get Mrs. Hudson to bring something up."

We sat in silence until the food came up, I trying to formulate a plan for Cole's downfall with my addled brain and he respecting my need for quiet.

Mrs. Hudson soon called from the sitting room that the food was ready, and Watson went to fetch it. I heard clips of their conversation, Watson assuring Mrs. Hudson I was well and the dear old lady sounded very much concerned.

Watson came back in with a bowl of stew, several sandwiches, and a cup of coffee. I reached for the latter, but before I could grab it Watson had snatched it up.

"I don't think so, old man. The least thing your digestive system needs is some caffeine to confuse it even more. Besides, I should say I need it more than you."

This last mumbled sentence caught my ear. How long had I been in this state? There was the quilt on the bedside chair, that told of at least one night.

"I believe you've earned a proper rest, Watson." I prompted as he nearly let his face fall into the coffee cup.

"Mmmhh."

"Go ahead. I shall be fine without your keen observation for a few hours."

He did not reply except to look at me skeptically.

I sighed. "Look, old fellow, I haven't the strength to move about. I'll be in bed the whole time. Rest assured."

It seemed I had broken some last barrier, for he gave in after scrunching up his face a few times. He rose, straightening out his wrinkled jacket and trousers.

"_Don't_," He threatened, glaring at me from under the mop of messy hair. "Get up."

I nodded, trying not to prolong his rest any longer, for he looked about out on his feet.

I hear the stairs creak as he climbed them then the footsteps fell quiet as he fell into the bed, probably still fully clothed.

* * *

A/N: Two chapters in two nights? What? Unheard of!

Luckily, with the end of the school year (almost!) also comes the end of extracurricular activities, so I've got more time to write now. :)


	15. You Make Me Think The Wrong Thing

A/N: Yeah…this is woefully overdue. Really, you guys have permission to throw rotten fruit or whatever unsavory objects you like at me.

* * *

**Watson**

I awoke some time later with my shoes still halfway on and a stale taste in my mouth. My watch told me it was mid afternoon; and I felt a pang of guilt for having slept so long. Feeling groggy and sluggish, I made my way over to the washbasin to freshen up. I was anxious to check on my charge- as healthy and spry as Holmes might be feeling, one did not get over a case of food poisoning in little more than a day. Knowing Holmes's tendency to throw his health to the wind, he would be up and about and causing himself more damage.

A change of clothes and shave did me a world of good, and I was feeling very refreshed by the time I got to the sitting room.

To my pleasure, I found Holmes not up and about but sprawled across the settee, fiddling at his violin. He looked up when I came in, seemingly relieved.

"Ah, Watson, you come at a most opportune time. The stagnation was beginning to become unbearable."

I quirked an eyebrow and started towards the table. "You could find nothing to do?"

"I've already rung for breakfast with the idea you might be up soon. Mrs. Hudson is preparing a spread at this very instant" Holmes remarked. "It was not that I could find nothing to do," He continued seamlessly, answering my query, "It is that, in my impaired state, I cannot act."

"What have you been doing? Nothing too strenuous-"

"If reading is considered strenuous' interjected Holmes. "I have been thinking on this case. You know it is a proverb of mine that there is nothing new under the sun. I have checked the indexes-" he gestured to an uncharacteristically neatly stacked pile of books next to the settee, "-and proven my point. Do you remember the Addleton tragedy*?"

"I have some recollection of it."

"We apprehended the culprit, you will remember, by agitating the criminal and encouraging him to repeat his offense. I propose we do the same for Mr. Cole."

"Are we to stage something like we did with Sir Henry?" I asked warily, for I was none to eager to be involved in anything of the same caliber as the climax of our last case.

"If all goes well it will be neither as exciting or vicious as that." Holmes said sympathetically, seeing my skeptical look. "And neither of us will share the fate of Sir Henry."

"What is your plan? I asked, and his face grew bright. He sat up, flinging his violin carelessly to the other side of the settee and steepling his fingers.

"First, we will send a missive to Miramaw, informing them of the situation and insisting they expressively deny any claims made against their spices. They should follow accordingly, I have some connections in the company that will assure my orders are followed. Cole, as some witnesses express, is a bit of a hothead. This counterblow will prompt him to send for the spices at Miramaw's warehouse to be poisoned again. Scotland Yard will be waiting at the Miramaw factory for Cole or any of his cronies to show up."

"Scotland Yard?" I asked. "Where will you be?"

"I admit," Holmes said with a frown, "that I am not at my best, and even at my insistence I doubt you would let me go gallivanting about."

I shook my head determinedly. "No indeed." This was certainly a welcome change, normally I would have to force Holmes to rest when he was convalescing.

"Then we must trust the Yard and hope that they function opposite of their norm. Here, Watson, write this out for me. To Mr. Dewar of the Miramaw Company: I strongly urge…"

After dictating the smoothly worded letter Holmes dozed off, much to my delight. I was left to contemplate his plan.

It stuck in my head that he seemed very eager to be there, and I knew his occasional distrust of the Yard. I decided to go as a representative for him. One of us there was better than none.

We'd sent a copy of the letter to Miramaw to the Yard, and explaining their instructions. They were to set a guard around the warehouse starting tonight. I figured I had best be at the warehouse tonight as well if I was to watch for Cole's intermediary- who knew when he might strike? I sent the Yard a note of my intended presence at the warehouse.

Holmes was still asleep as I set out, and I had no intention of waking him. I thought briefly of leaving a note, but the notion of his delight when I came back with news of the apprehended criminal was pleasant, so I left it as a surprise.

I arrived at the warehouse just as night had fallen. To my delight the Inspector assigned to duty was Lestrade. Lestrade had become something of a friend to Holmes and me, or at least to me. He was a familiar face, if nothing else. I approached the Inspector and struck up a conversation about the weekend's football matches to pass the time.

We eventually grew tired, of football matches and waiting in empty warehouses. When the first signs of the sun began to show it looked like we had struck out that night. I sat up from where Lestrade and I had been slumped against the wall to make my way back to Baker Street. Turning my head to stretch the muscles in my neck, I noticed a glimmer of movement at the other side of the warehouse.

I scrambled up, sneaking towards the suspicious movement. I stood behind one of the large vats of spices, craning my neck around the side. Not ten yards from me was a plainly dressed, stocky man uncorking a vial from his coat pocket. He made as if to pour it into the nearest vat, but I interrupted.

"Oi!" I yelled, startling the man. He took one look in my direction and sprinted away. I shouted to Lestrade before setting out after the man.

My best bet was to catch the man as quickly as possible, for I knew my leg would not hold up to the strain of sprinting for long. The man was not the fleetest I had ever met, so I was at least able to keep him in sight as he ducked out the building. We raced through the streets; I tried to avoid peddlers and early-morning strollers, he deliberately ran into them, if only to cause a distraction and hamper my movements. We were soon off the main streets, sliding through alleys and side-ways. My leg was paining me sharply now, but I was determined to keep up with the man. He could not be much better off than me, for the looks of him.

Suddenly he turned a corner and was out of sight. I stood bewildered for a few moments before I saw a door slam on the other side of the alley. I ran to it, found it unlocked, and looked up a small staircase. there was my man on the landing, stumbling down the hallway. Taking the stairs two at a time, I made it to the hallway just as he was opening the door at the end. With a final burst of speed, I bolted down the corridor and tackled the man in the doorway. Our momentum carried us through into the room, where we landed, panting.

I heard a slight cough and looked up.

"Why, Dr. Watson, how nice of you to join us. Let me introduce myself- I am Bertram Cole."

* * *

A/N: Ugh, a short, overdue chapter, then I leave you with a _ciffhanger?_ I'm a terrible person.

*Mentioned in the opening paragraph of GOLD


	16. Dropped Your Arms

A/N: Short little chapter for you guys since it's been so long. I don't have an excuse, unless you count my laptop dying as an excuse.

* * *

**Holmes**

_Thirty milliliters of sulfuric acid added to the chlorine solution and I will be on the brink of my most important chemical discovery since the invention of the Sherlock Holmes blood test…_

"Mr. Holmes!"

I fumbled the vial, spilling the destructive acid onto the table and adding to the growing collection of stains. An expressive string of curses followed as I jumped up at the sudden interruption. I quickly wiped a cloth over the spill before it could eat any further into the wood.

"Inspector Lestrade!" I cried. "What could possibly be so important?"

Lestrade looked white as a sheet.

"It's Doctor Watson," he replied. "He's gone."

**Watson**

"I can't say I was expecting you," Cole said, placing his hand under his chin and considering me. "Though it might work out just as well." He added under his breath.

I looked up from my undignified position on the floor.

_I can take the both of them, if I have the element of surprise…_

"That was a sloppy job." Cole said, turning to the man I'd been chasing with an expression of admonishment nauseatingly like that of a parent to a child.

_I have my revolver in my coat pocket…_

Any veteran of war will profess that they are able to make split second decisions, and I am not any different. I took advantage of Cole's temporary preoccupation to leap to my feet and whip out my revolver at him. The instant I had it aimed Cole's accomplice pulled out his own gun and trained it on the center of my forehead. Before I had time to react or fire a shot a massive force came crashing into my left side. I was thrown to the ground, where I hit hard, my head smacking against the floor and my revolver flying out of my hand.

Suddenly hands were on my forearms, flipping me onto my back and pinning me with their knees pressed on my chest. I gasped for air. Apparently I had overlooked a few of the room's occupants- there was at least one more thug, as evidenced by the burly figure kneeling on my lungs. He began to search me for weapons other than my discarded revolver. I could distinctly hear the footsteps of another crook crossing the room to pick up my only chance at freedom from where it lay only feet from me. Any slim chance I had had was now well and truly gone. I could no more successfully fight five men alone except for my fists than grow flowers out of my ears.

Out of the corner of my eye I was Cole's leather boot's approach. I could not help notice their gleam and the high quality of leather. He was as successful in the honest business world as he was in the dishonest one.

Before I knew what had happened that same expensive leather and its heavy sole had pressed down on my fingers with indomitable force where they still lay sprawled. I inhaled sharply and tried to draw back my hand only to find it unyieldingly trapped. I could feel the bones in my hand snap and every so often heard a crack to accompany it. Despite my strongest willing, reflex tears began to well up.

"Mr. Holmes and you have caused me quite a lot of trouble." Cole said in an indifferent tone. "You really almost succeeded in foiling me. Almost. I am not fool enough perform illegal tasks myself. You'd be amazed what men will do for money."

"You'd be amazed what men will do for revenge," I snarled back.

He scowled and twisted his boot down on my hand. I felt my eyes widen and I inhaled once again. Finally the pressure was released and Cole stepped back and took to pacing.

"My acts are justifiable!" He spat, walking in swift circles around the room.

I gently raised my injured hand up to eye level. I went to cradle it in my other hand but this was rather hard to do with the thug still kneeling on my chest. I was panting hard now, with the combined pain from my hand and the suffocating pressure on my lungs.

"I was perfectly at right to kill him. He stole Margaret from me!"

I was tempted to reply but thought it best for my health to keep silent.

"And the sailor, he didn't matter to anyone. He's not missed. A worthless piece of tar."

I bristled at this but once again held my tongue. I doubt I could have talked now anyway. I felt I might pass out soon if the pressure was not relieved from my chest.

Cole switched directions and shook his head as if to clear it. "You traced my steps admirably." He looked down at me, a smoldering expression changing to one of surprise as he saw my now purple face and rasping breaths.

"You can get off now, Wiley." He ordered. The man stepped off my chest. I felt as if a hundred bricks had just been lifted from me, my chest felt light and airy. The breaths came quickly now, and I set into a coughing fit as I inhaled too much all at once.

"Never mind how admirable your tracing was, or how effectively you set up a plan to catch me in the act, I've eluded all, and now, with you so conveniently placed in my lap, I'll also have Mr. Sherlock Holmes soon."

My dismay must have showed on my face, for Cole laughed. "He_ will_ come, as I'm sure you know. It seems absurd that such a remarkable man would have such an invariable weakness."

It was the last I heard, for the next instant a smelly cloth was shoved over my mouth and nose and chloroform had invaded my senses.

* * *

A/N: I guess I'm not really improving much in the cliff-hanger area.


	17. But What Could We Do?

Holmes

I'd wrung Lestrade for information a dozen times now and had gotten less of it than I would have from a raisin, and left him similarly dried out. He was deucedly unhelpful, and while logically I realized he was telling all, I needed more.

"You can't remember the features of this man?"

Lestrade sprang forward in his chair. "If I've told you once I've told you a thousand times, Mr. Holmes, he was thick-set, normally clad, and dark-haired." He snarled and then leaned back resignedly with a heavy sigh.

I turned away and pretended to study the slipper on the mantelpiece. My mind was whirring as fast as possible, but it was akin to running with no purchase. I cannot make bricks without clay. How ugly that philosophy seemed now! Every moment spent in Baker Street was a moment lost, yet I had absolutely no direction in which to start looking. It would do Watson no good for me to wander aimlessly through the city in search of him.

What an awful time for my deductive skills to fail me.

I began to feel panic swell up in my chest, an emotion that I thoroughly detested but try as I might could not vanquish. I'd find Watson eventually, I was certain, but would I be in time?

I knew Cole to be capable of throwing away human life as calmly as Mrs. Hudson might throw out rubbish. If Watson was in his hands now it did not bode well for either of them.

There was still the small, logically thinking part of my brain that insisted I would be walking straight into Cole's grasp. I did not dismiss the notion, but acknowledged it and then ignored it. If we had to be in some villain's grasp, I'd rather it be the both of us.

In a fit of frustration I tore my coat and hat from the stand and threw open the sitting room door, calling harshly for Lestrade to follow. Obviously I would get nothing more done by staying inside.

"To the warehouse, Inspector." I spat, letting Lestrade direct the cabbie.

I jumped out soon as we arrived, once again leaving the trifles to Lestrade. The ground was hard and disappointingly uninformative. The building exterior told just as much. I had Lestrade outline the night for me and trace Watson's approximate pursuit. My eyes stayed glued to the ground. Stone lay immediately outside the warehouse and left no footmarks or signs. I scoured the ground all around the door, trying to determine which way the two had run. I was becoming increasingly hopeless when my eye caught sight of a muddy slide mark. Further examination showed a boot mark smeared from a slip. What luck! One of them had stepped in mud, or a puddle, and subsequently left tracks that any school boy could follow. I had no trouble tracking the chase down the next alley and around a corner until the mud wore off and I was left to more advanced tracking techniques. A displaced piece of hay here, an awry crate there, and slowly I made progress. Lestrade even proved his worth by pointing out the trail more than once when I became stumped.

We came to a dead end alleyway where the trail stopped. There were no signs of a retreat, so they must have entered one of the buildings. I looked up and then rushed at the building on the left.

"The curtains, Lestrade!"

That was where Cole had made his mistake- the house was in a similar state of disrepair as the others in its vicinity, but the curtains were drawn tight. No house in this neighborhood, especially an abandoned one, would have curtains.

The door was locked but I was much too impatient, not to mention jittery, to pick the lock. Lestrade and I threw our shoulders against it, and the flimsy frame broke on the second shove.

I marched in and caught a glimpse of the small, dark room before a commotion broke out behind me. From the light streaming through the open door I saw Lestrade struggling with another man, and had just enough time to turn around before I was assaulted myself.

Fortunately I am no novice combatant and gave the fellow as much and more opposition as he gave me. We backed into a table, where he succeeded in getting his hands around my throat. My hand shot out and grappled for some sort of weapon to assist me. In a streak of good luck my fist clenched over a heavy metal object, which I hefted up and brought down on my opponent's skull. He brought his hand halfway to his head and keeled over, releasing me.

Lestrade was having his own troubles with a behemoth of a man a clear foot taller than him and much wider in girth. I hoisted up my weapon, observing now that it was a large brass candlestick, and swung it at the pair of them. Out of some misdemeanor of chance, the brute ducked and my candlestick crashed into Lestrade's ferret-like forehead, felling him like an old tree. I had no time to be surprised nor remorseful, for the villain's attention was now on me. I swung my candlestick at him wildly and made glancing contact with the side of his head. He charged at me with the ferocity of an angry bull and met my brass club mid-swing. He too fell to the floor with a groan.

I looked around the room and its occupants for a moment, deliberating whether or not to secure the ruffians or try to wake Lestrade. I decided to do neither, I had not the time, and time was of the utmost importance. But the room was empty besides the three men I'd rendered unconscious with a candlestick. Watson might be anyplace.

I caught sight of a tiny staircase in the shadows of the other side of the room and immediately made for it.

The stairs led to a landing, at the end of which was a door. I approached it, bemoaning my lack of foresight to bring a firearm. I still had the candlestick clenched in my hand, and raised it as I turned the knob. The door opened without need of picks or shoulders, swinging wide open with a small push.

Standing just inside the doorway was the man I knew to be Bertram Cole. His expression changed from smug to confused to stony in a span of three seconds as he took in my candlestick and me.

He smirked. "I'd have thought my colleagues-"

"Where is Dr. Watson?" I spat, stepping foreword and fingering the candlestick.

"-My colleagues would have kept you-"

"Where is Dr. Watson?" I repeated, leaning in.

"-occupied a bit longer. Oh, no, Mr. Holmes, don't start any of that. He's right over there."

I stopped in the act of raising the candlestick higher to jerk my head in the direction of Cole's outstretched finger. There, propped up against the side of a desk, was the doctor. His eyes were shut and he didn't move, but I could see distinctly the rise and fall of his chest.

"It worked like a charm." Cole continued. "Having him here fetched you without any effort on my part. And what an effort it would have been had he not played the cards so nicely into my hands. I'm not sure I see the same qualities you do in him, Mr. Holmes."

I burst forward and took him by the shoulders, knocking the vile bugger into a window.

"You've a lot to answer for, man." I heard myself say. " And I've a police officials downstairs who would love to ask the questions."

While this wasn't quite the truth, it nonetheless served its purpose- Cole visibly paled at the mention of police. He rapped his knuckles on the window in what I took as nervousness, then resumed that infernally smug expression of before. I had a mind to wallop him then, but there were more important things to intend to.

My ears suddenly picked up on some minutiae of sounds from downstairs. I swiveled to face the door, adjusting my grip on Cole to one arm.

We waited.

I seemed to hear footsteps on the stairs, but couldn't tell if it was my imagination or reality. After what seemed like an eternity, in which time I glance at Cole twice, Watson thrice, and the door an inestimable amount of times, the doorknob turned and the door was pushed open excruciatingly slowly.

Two buffoons of the same build and same intellect, I supposed, as the ones downstairs appeared, one cautiously holding out a revolver and the other brandishing a small knife.

Cole tensed up. "Come on, get him off me!"

I managed a whack in the ribs with my candlestick before I was torn off Cole and the candlestick torn off me.

"Took your time, did you not?" Cole lectured. "I signaled you minutes ago!"

I realized with a start what the nervous tapping had been and internally groaned at my blindness.

Cole now turned to me. "I'd expected a bit more of you, Mr. Holmes, than to commit such a rudimentary mistake as forgetting the reinforcements."

I glared in response, quite angry with the mess I'd made of all this. Fool I'd been to even take up this darned case in the first place.

"I suppose both are out cold downstairs?" Cole had turned back to the newcomers.

"Yes," said one, who seemed to be doing most of the talking, and looked oddly familiar. "And, strange though it is, there's an unconscious plainclothes there as well."

Cole looked bemused. "That's your police official? Mr. Holmes, you do disappoint."

He sniggered for a few more moments to himself in a deucedly annoying manner that made me want to take up the candlestick again and shove it down that slimy throat of his.

"Bind Mr. Holmes up, please, and we'll wait for Dr. Watson to awaken. It shouldn't be much longer, and the whole thing will be much easier if they're both awake."


	18. It's So Dangerous

**Holmes**

I wondered what they'd done to Watson. I could see no bruises or lacerations from my vantage point a few yards away, but the modern clothing style left very little exposed. His face and hands, at least, were unharmed. I did not underestimate, however, the cruelty of this murderous man. They'd done their best to put me out of commission in our struggle downstairs. I did not know what they'd done to render him unconscious, but I dearly hope it was not a harmful drug. I suspected chloroform, which would leave him terribly groggy when he woke and would make an attempt at escape that much harder. If only we had time for the effects to wear off, we might be able to escape! We'd had worse captors than this, certainly cleverer ones. But I wasn't sure what I'd do to escape if we had the chance, anyway. My brain seemed to choosing all the very _best_ moments to uncharacteristically not work.

Watson's boots began to wiggle. I turned my head and watched. He opened his eyes swiftly, taking in the room and making eye contact with me for a moment before blinking slowly twice. He looked confused, but not blank. I hoped he was cognizant enough to recognize me and remember the situation.

"Cole. 'E's up." said the familiar man who'd been watching us. Cole had sent the other men off to take care of Lestrade, with instructions to "put him somewhere nice". If we all survived this, I decided, I owed the Inspector more than one apology. We had one sole guard, a fact that had made escape very attractive, yet impossible with Watson unconscious. If we could somehow do it now…

Cole turned from the table in the corner where he'd been writing something and made his way to us. He looked at Watson. I glared at Cole.

"Hello again, Dr. Watson. How are you feeling?"

I smoldered internally at the docile, friendly tone in which he spoke to my friend. Watson said nothing, only leant his head back against the wall.

"Tired? Well, that's all right." He turned to me. "I'm sure you'd like to know everything, Mr. Holmes. Or have you already gotten it figured out? Either way, I don't think I'll tell you. How will it feel not to know all the answers, Mr. Holmes?" Coles looked expectantly at me, but I followed Watson's example an kept silent.

"Fear not, it won't last long. I, for one, have learnt not to waste time when killing someone. Every second wasted is another second they're alive."

Cole pulled a gun from his coat pocket and raised it at me. My mind, once again, stopped thinking. I couldn't…

"You're from the warehouse!"

Watson had shouted out, his eyes wide with fear. Coles lowered his gun and looked at Watson as if he were mad. "You!" he called again, looking at the man I'd thought was familiar. "You're Barnett."

Cole looked irritated. "Shush."

"You're Barnett!" Watson insisted again, eyes only for the largish man behind Cole.

"Shush!" Cole hissed again. He raised a hand in Watson's direction, but I kicked out at him before he could do anything. He snarled and kicked back.

"What're you getting out of this?" Watson continued addressing the man now labeled 'Barnett'. I realized what he was doing, and was suitably impressed by his quick-thinking, nonetheless while drugged. "You'll probably go to jail, I'm sure _he'll_ take all the profit-"

Cole lashed out again, this time striking Watson's head with the barrel of his gun before I could do anything. Watson swooned dazedly but kept upright. I struggled at my bonds and did my best to hamper Cole with my legs and feet, to give Watson a chance to go through with his plan -perhaps not a particularly marvelous one, but better than what I'd come up with. It was, though a rather one-sided fight.

Watson kept on talking to Barnett, who looked somewhere between confused and disconcerted, but was listening raptly to Watson. I began to think that this might work.

"What do you get? You'll go to jail! You're going to _kill_ two men! He's using you-"

Cole raised his gun and fired.

* * *

A/N: Tiny, tiny, I know! And a cliffhanger. Oh golly gee.


	19. Not A Moment Too Soon

**Watson**

Barnett fell heavily. A stain sprouted from his collar and slowly covered his neck in red. He gurgled helplessly from his face down position on the floor.

I stared, mortified at what I'd done. Rather than prevent our deaths and save a man from permanent criminality, I'd killed the man and probably guaranteed our own deaths. My mouth opened part of the way and stayed there, hanging open like some flopping fish. I felt Holmes's eyes on me, but I did not turn to meet his gaze. I wasn't sure I could handle whatever expression he might be wearing. That same gurgling sound was one I'd heard so many times in war- it was a horrible, nauseating sound.

Cole lowered his gun and re-cocked it. He glared at us harshly. Barnett still gurgled softly in the background. He was choking on his on blood, he'd surely been shot in or near the throat…Oh, Lord, what had I done?

"A prime example, gentlemen, of what can happen when I keep you alive. These things must be done quickly."

Cole raised the gun again, aiming at me. I closed me eyes. I couldn't possibly think of how to get out of it now. I was too dazed from the chloroform, too mortified from the half-dead man that was my fault, too tired from it all. I began to breathe heavily, beneath my eyelids colors sprouted and exploded. I felt an odd sense of vertigo and tipped slightly to the side.

Somewhere beyond me a sharp scuffling noise sounded, people were grunting, yelling. A gun went off. I squinted my eyes shut and my whole body flinched.

Nothing happened. No pain. Shock? No, bullets did not feel like this, even ones to the head. Bullets hurt, even in the first few moments.

Someone breathed through the darkness. I opened my eyes.

Three were on the floor now, two with red all over them. Barnett, Cole, Holmes. Holmes breathed, looking up at the ceiling, his feet and hands still bound together. Cole lay partway on his side, a bloody hole in his head. The gun lay on his chest. I imagined it was still hot.

Holmes and I made eye contact. He looked like he'd been terribly, terribly scared. I wondered why, this was not a normal expression. He took a deep breath. I thought that I should help him, check him over for illness; he was not usually like this.

Then my head took to pounding terribly, and my vision swooned more than it should, and all at once I was on the floor without knowing what had happened. I took several big, sobbing breaths. Still Barnett gurgled.

"Watson," A hand was on me, awkwardly pulling me up into a half-sitting position against the wall. "Watson! Listen."

I moved my head lazily.

"Come now, Watson, untie me. Come on."

I recognized Holmes's voice, heard the urgency, and groggily reached a hand out.

"That's it. That's it."

The knots took me a long time, but I worked on them diligently as I could in my weakened state, for an order from Holmes was not one to be neglected. Once I had them loose he struggled his hands out and threw the ropes down. I had a vision of him tearing apart the bonds around his ankles. I was confused. What was the urgency for? It seemed I'd missed something again.

Then Holmes was up in front of me, crouching, dragging me up to a straighter position. My head protested. Holmes went to my hands, untied them, then did the same with my feet. I watched his actions in a blur, all of the sudden I was so very dazed and exhausted.

"Here, Watson, here." Holmes crouched in front of me again, his eyes weirdly concerned-looking. "Here, old boy, are you all right?"

I looked at him, taking inventory of any injuries I might have. Finding none, I said, "Why, certainly."

Holmes sat down next to me and put a hand to his mouth. He looked at the door, turning the back of his head to me, and then back at the middle of the room.

The gurgling stopped.

**Holmes**

None of it was probable, most of it not even _possible_ by most standards, yet we were here, both of us relatively unharmed (besides that Watson was extremely dazed and spoke with more slurring than I would have liked).

When Cole had pointed the revolver at Watson I'd thrown caution to the wind and dived for him. My bonds prevented any real sort of force, but I managed to take him to the floor and flop over. I flung myself at him and somewhere in the struggle the gun had gone off. There was first the realization that it hadn't hit me, that it hadn't hit Watson, and then that it had hit Cole himself. His arm had been twisted around and in my floundering I'd made him pull the trigger. It was a unprecedented piece of luck.

Apparently the effects of the drug caught up with Watson, for despite his quick talking earlier, he slumped down on the wall and closed his eyes, breathing heavily. Trauma and drugs were not a good combination, and my main focus for now was to get him out of here and to some well-deserved rest.

* * *

A/N: Just a bit more left...won't be seeing a computer, probably, until monday/tuesday. At least I didn't leave a cliff hanger.


	20. Then You'll Know

A/N: A big, _big_ thanks to Brazeau, who caught a particularly glaring mistake of mine.

* * *

**Watson**

I continued to be in a dazed state that reminded me of being very, very drunk. I saw Holmes sit down next to me and rest his elbows on his knees. He look awfully tired.

As I pondered why Holmes would be so weary, he got an odd look on his face and sniffed several times, wrinkling his nose in confusion and then alarm. His eyes grew wide and once again he was on his feet, very quickly, and he rushed to the door and into the hall and back. The normally pale pallor of his face had turned even further ashen. I was puzzled.

Holmes braced himself against the doorframe, looking decidedly panicked. I watched him as he frantically searched the room, his eyes finally resting on the window. He rushed to it and flung it open after some trouble with a stiff latch, and then with a brief peek out and down into the street below, he was back on the other side of the room, making his way towards me. I readied myself for action.

Holmes held out his hand. "Up we come." He crooned, his voice firm but tone oddly puerile. I went to take his assisting limb abut then drew back my hand when Holmes took a sharp breath in and let his mouth hang open.

"Why, Watson, your hand! He cried.

I looked down at the offending appendage and was surprised myself. It was a swollen mess of multi-colored bruising and stiff joints. Upon seeing it my mind remembered to process pain and the whole of the hand started to throb mercilessly. I gasped and held it close to my chest.

Holmes had been watching, categorizing my reaction and affliction. Something must have been very urgent, though, for instead of worryingly treating and fawning over my injury, as was normal, he heaved me to my feet by my shoulders instead and paused only to tuck the hand securely into my jacket pocket.

I had more trouble keeping my feet that I'd had since I was infant, but Holmes spotted my tottering and took his shoulder under my arm. He led me unsteadily to the open window, where below the house puffed and glowed like some ancient Orient dragon. I wondered what could be going on down there. Perhaps, by chance, I had missed the highly-celebrated Chinese New Year.

Holmes began to urge me out the window with words and phrases I could scarcely comprehend but meanings I easily understood. I was at a loss for why Holmes would want me to climb out the window, but his judgment had hardly ever proved less than infallible before, and my trust in him was so that I wouldn't question him, especially when his expression was of that particular nature.

The amount of solid building outside the window was not a large one, and in my current mysteriously unsteady condition, I was not over-eager to travel it. But with Holmes's hand clutching my one arm and the good one planted firmly on the building side, I managed to get out the window and take a few small steps along the tiny roof-edge.

Holmes followed me out, still holding fast to my injured arm and making his way across the building side. I ventured to look down and saw the cobblestone two stories down, the bottom floor of our building still glowing and emitting noxious fumes of smoke. A good puff of it got in my nose and eyes and I was reminded of Holmes's likeness to this creature when he took to his pipe.

Holmes led us to a bit of the roof that slanted downward towards the ground and shepherded me onto it. I sat down and scooted towards the bottom, where a part of the first-floor stone jutted out like a reverse window-sill. I planted my feet on it, grasping the concept that , for some reason, it was important to get to the ground, and quickly. Holmes probably wanted to have a look at the glowing dragon.

I made it as far as to have both my feet on the stone edge before I slipped and fell rather unceremoniously to the ground some two meters below. I landed in a roll and kept rolling until I was once again face up. I caught sight of Holmes, also trying to get down by the stone edge. I thought to warn him that it was slippery, but my voice didn't seem to work. I wondered if Holmes would be mad at me for falling and felt an intense heat come over me that must have been embarrassment. A foolish fall it was, but I seemed to have no control over my body.

Presently the dragon whooped mightily, a great, loud sound, and then the whole of the building and dragon collapsed in slow motion. Holmes fell with it, jumping out as far as he could from it, I presume to get away from the angry dragon.

I turned my head and rested it against the ground, which was blessedly cool, and waited for Holmes to come and inform me all about the dragon. Somewhere in the distance I heard a dangling of fire-bells and hoped that whoever's house had caught fire was alright.


	21. Stop, Think

A/N: Just one more chapter, I think!

* * *

**Holmes**

Fire in close-quarters is a dangerous thing. It spreads more quickly and heavily than even Mycroft spreads butter on his toast and causes much more destruction. The building we had been in was now a smoldering mess, the ones adjoining it were being slowly licked away to black char.

I struggled up in a dazed stagger, unaware of much and not sure of the immediate passage of time. Already I could hear the clanging of the fire brigade somewhere in the distance. Lord, this would take some explaining. I hoped the police force would not be so quick in showing up, they tended to be more nosy than the firemen.

A pocket of fire popped loudly behind me and snapped me back into the present. I looked around in a quick spell of awareness and found Watson. By Jove, he was having a rough time of it. I went to him and knelt down, feeling a fool all the way.

He seemed to be awake, but I couldn't get a proper reaction from him. Any movement was delayed and sluggish, a symptom that alarmed me considerably. His eyes dropped and closed, popping open again when I called his name sharply a few times. I wasn't sure if he should be allowed to go to sleep, and for once, I bemoaned my lack of medical knowledge. Always before Watson had been able to advise in such matters.

I sat him up, hoping that this would discourage any sleepy ideas he might have. I changed my mind about the police force's punctuality and hoped that they would be here early, and bring a medic with them. It was difficult to tell the seriousness and extent of his injuries. The hand would need to be treated, his head must be somehow injured, not to mention the various other things- smoke exposure, trauma, the question of what exactly they had done with him before I'd located them. I should not like it if he'd been drugged at all.

I did not wish to remain in the middle of this street any longer. There were two men dead in that burning building, several arsonists running about, and a Scotland Yard Inspector unconscious somewhere. I hooked Watson under his arms and half-dragged, half-carried him to the kerb, where I set him down again, huffing and wheezing, far more tired than I should be. I was not keen to admit that this case had taken a toll on me, but there was no denying that it had.

I'd meant to check on Watson more thoroughly, properly ascertain his medical condition, and treat it if I could., but somewhere along the way I leant back to rest for a moment, just a moment. Soon the cobblestone became my pillow and I noticed amusedly how the fire's reflection danced in a nearby puddle.

Disconcerting as it is when one awakens with another being fluttering about above one, wrapping bandages around one's various appendages and poking and prodding, it is even more unnerving when one awakens with no one in sight in an unfamiliar place with one's entire body exhibiting the qualities of a pile of rags. Especially when one is quite aware and alarmed that one's dear and injured friend is not to be found.

A special amount of effort was required to prop myself up and look around. The scenery was not one of great beauty: two gray, narrow walls and a rotting door formed a small hall. When I looked behind me I saw a set of stairs and concluded I must be in a tenement hallway, so alike it was to the hall of the burning building. How and why I was in a tenement hall would still take some deducing.

I was not left to puzzle for long. A constable entered through the door a few moments later. I daresay he was a bit surprised to see me cognizant, even more so when I battered him with a rapid succession of inquiries.

"How was I transported here, more importantly, why? Are the firemen here yet; do you have a superior officer, and for God's sake what has become of Dr. Watson?"

The constable stood dumbfounded. Honestly, the sort of people they let onto the force!

"Well, out with it, man!"

"I'm not certain you should be exerting yourself, sir, you've had a right knock about."

"Nonsense, I'm completely fine." I stood, using the wall for support.

"Are you sure you're fit to be up?"

"Are you sure you're fit to be a constable?" I mumbled in retort, then, louder, "Have you a superior officer on the scene?"

"Yes, sir, right his way." The constable led me out the door and into the chaotic fray of the fire brigade, police force, and ambling civilians. I spotted Inspector Bradstreet in the middle of it all and at once made straight for him, the constable still trying to lead me and succeeding only in falling further behind.

"Inspector!" I called, and saw Bradstreet's head whip about at the sound of my voice, to my satisfaction.

"Mr. Sherlock Holmes!" He yelped, cantering up to me. "I believe I'd love to hear what in devil has happened."

"All in good time, Inspector. Might you tell me where Dr. Watson is?"

"He's already in the transport to the hospital."

"To the hospital!' I cried. "Was it that bad?"

"The surgeon said his injuries were relatively minor, but it is Force procedure to send any injured person to the nearest hospital."

I turned to leave.

"You can't take off, Mr. Holmes!"

"I most certainly can."

"Mr. Holmes! We need your account of the events. You are a primary witness!"

"I do hope you've found Inspector Lestrade," I threw over my shoulder, flagging down a cab and commanding the driver to the nearest hospital, throwing a regal amount of change in the cabbie's direction as I couldn't be bothered to count in my irritation and distraction. Besides, a little monetary incentive does wonders for speed.

My collapsing onto the cab seat was met with exhaustion and a miserable feeling in my lungs. I felt the worse for my brief leave of the conscious world. I passed a hand over my eyes and rested it on the bridge of my nose. The taste in my throat led me to thinking I'd never smoke again, so full of noxious ash and smoke it was.

The arrival of my vessel at King's College hospital jarred me out of the stupor I'd fallen into. Some painful inquiries and vicious arguments with the receptionist and members of the staff finally led me to Watson. I was led through the halls by a young doctor who looked deservedly scared of me.

The hospital lived up to the reputation given to most medical institutions and I was reminded why Watson regarded hospitals with disdain. I was beginning to be not so fond of them myself as I saw the overcrowding, filthy conditions, and meager supplies. The young medico stopped in a kind of waiting room, where a wretched group of people slumped in various postures and all states of ill-health. Two or three nurses bustled about in attempt to keep the patients relatively all right. I found Watson immediately and deserted the doctor to hasten to my friend. He slouched in a chair, his head continually nodding forward and then snapping back p as he attempted to stay awake. He caught sight of me and brightened incredibly, jumping up in a sudden burst of alertness. This abrupt motion was too much for his already taxed equilibrium, however and I scurried to steady him as his face lost a deal of color and his knees buckled beneath him,

Settled safely into the chair once gain, he looked up at me ad opened his mouth to speak. It opened and close twice before he decided on something to say.

"Dear God, Holmes."

"I am abundantly glad to see you in one piece, old boy." I beamed. "The way the police talked,, your health might have been irretrievable."

"It is in their means to exaggerate."

I could see Watson try to follow my attempt at lightening the mood, but my experienced eyes caught all the implications of his utter exhaustion and bodily distress. I looked around, saw the hustling nurses, the man coughing besides us and the lack of attention from the staff, and made an easy and swift decision.

Taking Watson's elbow, I pulled up . He looked at me confusedly but did not say anything.

"Let us return to that comfort and warmth of Baker street, my dear fellow."

He looked at me, both extremely relieved and disbelieving in the same expression,

"Holmes, we cannot just leave the hospital without telling anyone. The police-"

"The police have waited longer for information that we shall make them. As for medical attention, we are wont to get it here, and I would trust your current inhibited medical skills over these hurried doctors."

I had begun to lead Watson to the door as I talked, and both his strength and his will was flagging enough that he gave in and sank into the cab.

I paid the cabbie, correctly this time, and collapsed onto the seat next to my friend. The gaslights had just been lit and in their unusually warm glow that night we ventured home.

* * *

A/N: I don't know much about 19th century hospitals- heck, I don't know much about modern day hospitals, I haven't been in one since I was too young to remember. If there are any glaring mistakes, or not so glaring ones, feel free to tell me.


	22. The Living Room

I awoke to Holmes's sharp tenor piercing through the floorboards and ringing in my room. It somehow penetrated the cocoon of warmth I was enclosed in, though there must have been nigh on ten blankets piled up on me.

Again Holmes's voice echoed through the woodwork. I figured I should get up and see what the ruckus was about.

At the back of my mind the events of the night previous -or was it? There was no telling how long I'd slept- lurked. I did my best not to think about what had happened for it was by no means pleasant and I did not wish to relive the death of two men any sooner than I must. Holmes's safety was confirmed by the wailing he was doing, though I had a hazy recollection of him being in less than top form and the two of us visiting a hospital.

The hospital could just as well have been for me as for Holmes, judging from the way I felt. Certainly I had bumped my head and my hand was swollen.

It was not worth speculation. I would just go and check with Holmes what had happened, and perhaps calm him from whatever was plaguing him enough to cause him to yell throughout the flat.

I made my way slowly out of the cocoon, not wishing to risk anything with sudden movements and not feeling particularly like I could move any faster if I tried. I dressed and slowly gained some balance. The stairs were another challenge in themselves. I made it about halfway down without mishap, and then Holmes burst out of the sitting room door and onto the landing, pulling his coat on as he did so.

Behind him a plainclothesman trailed, looking dogged and thoroughly tired. I recognized him, but couldn't remember his name. He weakly protested Holmes's actions.

"Mr. Holmes…"

"One of your own Inspectors, sir! I would wish a bit more urgency on you-"

He cut off and followed the Inspector's gaze, as the policeman had stopped listening to Holmes and started staring up the stairs to me. I would have been a sight, I suppose, in my poorly-dressed, sickly-looking state. The Inspector's stare was one of puzzlement, but Holmes's turned from malignancy to surprised delight. He stopped in the process of putting his coat on and leapt up the stairs with it hanging on his arms. Holmes wore a rare expression of pure joy. I felt some small pride that my appearance could produce such an uncommon emotion in him.

Holmes came to a halt directly in front of me with a rapidly expanding smile. I answered with a grin of my own, more inspired by his happiness than by any really gaiety I felt, for I didn't yet see the reason for such merriness.

"Halloa, doctor" Holmes trilled, pulling his coat properly up on his shoulders.

"Good afternoon, Holmes," I returned.

"I am full of joy to see you well. Come into the sitting room. Yes, we can manage those stairs; here, give me your arm. Slowly, now. _Mrs. Hudson!_ Yes, Inspector, I bid you good day. I hope to hear from you very soon with news. Here, Watson the settee is yours."

Holmes helped me to the couch, which I sat in tenderly, still unsure of the extent of my ills.

"Are you well, Holmes?" I asked, remembering the hospital and smoke.

"Quite. I think that question would be out to better use on you."

I made an attempt to assessmy health. "I believe I am all in one piece, though I've felt better."

Holmes had no chance to reply, for at the moment Mrs. Hudson and my wife entered the room. They both made straight for me, Mary taking my hands and assailing me questions, and Mrs. Hudson patting my shoulder, then going off to get some tea for all of us at Holmes's bidding.

I reassured my long-suffering wife to a point of reasonable content, then began to tell the parts of the tale she hadn't heard yet. When I got to the parts I didn't remember Holmes would take over. In that way I also learned more of our plight. I was surprised to hear of Inspector Lestrade's misfortune, and disconcerted to hear he had yet to be found. That, at least explained the presence of the Inspector in our sitting room earlier, and Holmes's angry tone. Holmes assuredme he had told the Yard expressively that Lestrade's safety was a top priority.

Holmes spoke before I could even express concern for Lestrade, stating viciously that he had sent for the Yard's next finest to look for him. There was a certain tone to his voice that made me wonder if he felt guilty, but he brushed away any questions I posed. I still didn't even know exactly how Lestrade had disappeared.

When we came to the part about the hospital, which I vaguely, remembered, I turned to Holmes for assistance. He looked nervous and swallowed.

"We came back to Baker Street and did not linger at the hospital."

I registered this. "You mean we did not even receive any medical care at the hopsital?" I asked, incredulous.

"I had intended to send for Anstruther..." Holmes trailed.

"Intended?" I asked.

"But _I_ was the one who ended up doing it," Mrs. Hudson interjected smoothly. "As Mr. Holmes was incapable of even keeping his eyes open at the time.

At this development I appraised Holmes for any damage I might have missed, but found none save that he looked much done in.

"Mrs. Hudson, you are indispensable," Holmes said suavely.

I spent the night at Baker Street that night because Mary and Holmes were of the opinion that I should not even got out in the weather or "be moved", though I attested to them that both situations were perfectly within my capabilities. Apparently my medical opinion is ruled out when I am the patient.

The following morning consisted of me lying on the settee reading the paper and catching up on my medical journals, because I was still not feeling my vibrant self. Holmes had gone out early that morning, but within an hour he returned triumphantly with news.  
"Lestrade has been found."

"Thank goodness" I breathed. "Where was he? Is he alright?"

"He was a few blocks from where we sparred with ouradversaries**,** locked in a room of a small house. He is perfectly healthy, except for a bump on his head, which I can confidently say is not too serious as I am the one who delivered it.

"Pardon?" I asked, confused.

"Holmes paused, looking singularly uncomfortable. "The Inspector was a victim of bad timing in our little sprawl with Cole's men. I'm afraid I took him out with a candlestick."

I could not decide whether to frown or laugh at this, and ended up with a mixture of both. Holmes smiled sheepishly. He took off his coat and came over to the fire, where he did not sit, but stood by the mantelpiece. He stuffed his pipe and slowly began to smoke. I waited expectantly for some poignant thought, but received nothing for another few minutes, after which he afforded me a penetrating look. I stopped reading my paper.

"I wonder if it would not be better and safer for you to not assist me on cases." he said softly.

I was aghast. "Why, Holmes, if you think-"

"No, no." he faltered, seeing my misunderstanding. "I am forever grateful to you for your help. But you gain nothing from it; rather sometimes you are harmed by it."

"That is the falsest statement I have ever heard. I would not miss them for the world."  
Holmes put his eyes down and smiled a bit.

"Good old Watson," he said.

The following Thursday, Holmes invited me to Baker Street, as Lestrade planned to visit, and I would, additional to wanting to see the Inspector, be needed for a witness statement. Holmes had informed me earlier of the Yard's other progress: they had, with Holmes's help, arrested and detained nearly everyone affiliated in Cole's operations.

Lestrade appeared mere minutes after I did in the sitting room. He looked none the worse for wear, save a colorful lump near his hairline.

"It is wonderful to see you well, Inspector," I greeted, shaking hands with him warmly.

"The very same for you, Doctor. I see you've recovered nicely." Lestrade returned.

"That is quite the nasty bump you've got there." I said, gesturing to his head.

"Yes, isn't it? Someone hit me rather well with something hard. "He stated.

"Yes, indeed," Holmes quipped quickly. "Must've been an odious fellow." he added, looking at me meaningfully. I fought to hide my smile.

Holmes settled into his chair, but stayed upright and alert, rather than his usual languorous posture. "Let's have it," said he. I sat on the settee.

Lestrade took a breath. "You are aware, gentlemen, that there were two dead bodies in the second floor of the building that burned, where you were found."

Holmes stared straight at the wall. "Yes,"

"Were you involved in the killing of these two?"

Holmes's eyes narrowed. "Neither of us- Watson nor I- we didn't kill either of them."

Lestrade gazed at Holmes. "Did you kill them, Holmes?"

Holmes turned his attention away from the wall and onto the Inspector. "We didn't," he repeated.

I became aware that I was holding my breath, and let it out in one, slow, whispering stream. It was like the hum of a steam engine in that room. Lestrade finally broke the gaze between Holmes and him. "As you say." he concluded, scribbling something in his notebook.

The rest of the interview was docile enough and could easily be described as dull. We were questioned about the process Holmes took to get to the burning building, and in his usual magnificent flourish he revealed his deductive process. I noticed, though, that it was a bit subdued.

Holmes did most of the talking, though he did not permit me from saying something when I felt the need.

Finally, Lestrade closed his book. "That's all, gentlemen. Thank you."

I nodded in consolation and Holmes stood up to walk the Inspector to the door.

Lestrade paused as he exited the sitting room. "I believe you," he said, then disappeared out the door and down the stairs.

Holmes shut the door softly and came to sit in his chair.

I took up my medical journal again from the side table and my friend Sherlock Holmes smoked his pipe.

"Another case successfully concluded, Holmes?"

Holmes turned to me. "One might say so."

Then he turned back to the wall and within an hour had disappeared within a cloud of pipe smoke.

* * *

_A/N: That's it! Done! Concluded! Fin! And I feel rather happy about it :)_

_Thanks for sticking with me.  
_


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